Hermione Rents a Flat
by mariteri
Summary: Hired by Mycroft to protect his brother, Hermione rents 221C. Sherlock must deal with a murder of excesses, as well as attempt to figure out the bigger mystery that is right on his front doorstep-Hermione Granger herself. A.U. Contemporary Post Hogwarts. Set between episodes one and two of series three of Sherlock. No spoilers that I'm aware of. M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**So here it is. I had gotten so many requests for a sequel (one of them from my own beta) that I was spurred into writing this multi-chapter fanfiction. Thank you to everyone that took the time to review "Hermione Walked into a Pub". Sorry I never got back to many of you. I was seriously worried that I would let the cat out of the bag about this story. I hope you like it.**

**Please read and review.**

**Chapter One**

If there were any time Hermione had ever wished anyone to be struck mute, this would be that moment. Ron had been carrying on for five hours about a quidditch game that only lasted ten minutes. How that was even possible, she didn't know, but there you go! And if that wasn't bad enough if Harry and Ginny became anymore familiar with each other's tonsils, they would need a room upstairs.

Hermione needing at least one breath of fresh air that didn't involve listening about that stupid game yet again, got up.

"Well, I'm off," she told them. "I have an early start come the morning." She smiled at all of them, but somehow she knew it wasn't reaching her eyes. "Take care all…"

"Hermione, we still need to speak…" Ron started only to have her lift her hand to stop him.

"Say hello to Lavender for me, would you?" she told him, making him go red in the face even as Harry and Ginny turned hard eyes onto him. "Seeing as you're practically living in her flat that should prove painfully simple." She looked over to Harry. "Nice try, but it's over." She kissed his head, turning to leave when Ginny got up and joined her.

"You're really not upset?" she asked, as they began walking.

"Why should I be?" she inquired. "Gin, it didn't work out. It's a shame that it didn't, but I'm not going to make like Anna Karenina over Ronald bloody Weasley!"

Ginny frowned and asked, "Who is Anna Karenina?"

Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "No one of import." They arrived at the apparition point. "Take care of yourself, Ginny. I'll get word to you as soon as I am able to."

"Where are you going this time?"

Hermione smiled and said, "You'd never believe me."

"Really? Is it somewhere tropical?"

"Ginny, I can't tell you. So why you bother to inquire, I'll never know." She kissed her cheek. "Be well. I'll be back before you know it."

"The last time you said that, you were gone for two years," she snapped.

"Yes, but you received the best post cards ever. You said so yourself!" This only gained Hermione an eye roll, even as she was disappariting away.

…

Hermione's job had taken her around the world, protecting one person or another since she left her job in the Department of Mysteries. And low and behold where was she being sent to now, but London proper. Normally she lived but a stone's throw away in the countryside nearest to East Anglia and she usually shied away from the city. But as of two days ago, she had no choice but to move to London.

Severus had called her into his office in the ultra-exclusive Diogenes Club. She slipped into the room and was shocked to see that Mycroft Holmes was in the office sitting not in one of the guest chairs, but behind the desk. Looking over to Severus, he rolled his eyes and nodded towards one of the chairs sitting in front of the man occupying her employer's usual seat.

She sat down, crossing her legs and waited for the man to speak. A small nearly unnoticeable smile touched his lips, but never made it up to his eyes.

"I require your assistance in guarding my brother once again," he told her.

She said nothing for a moment, before drawling, "Shall I play invisible buffer once more?"

"No, this time you shall be living in the same residence as he," the man told her.

She nodded, but said, "We've met. In a pub two weeks back." Looking over to Severus, she explained, "It was a chance meeting. I was coming in from that utter crap-fest in Yorkshire. I went to a pub to get a meal and a drink. I never imagined I would see him there." Severus nodded in understanding. Looking to Mycroft, she went on, "I do believe I intrigued him and he does know my name."

Mycroft nodded to this. "Very good. The closer to the truth, the better. No one can lie to my brother and get away with it. The less you have to do so the better." Leaning back, he murmured, "But what to give you to do for a living? It's not as if we can have you being independently wealthy, not with you living in a basement flat."

She thought it over and said, "We can say I'm working for you in a capacity which I am unable to speak to him about." Hermione grinned. "It would be the truth."

"A truth he would no doubt dig into," he pointed out to her to which she nodded at the logic of his statement. "Have you ever given thought in attending university to attain your Ph.D.?"

"I have two of them, so yes, I must have at one point or another thought as much," she answered dryly. "But I could always use another if it must come to that."

He shook his head no. "Have you written anything? Have you thought to become published?"

She flicked a look over to Severus, who looked ready to laugh at the other man's question. "Seeing as my employer thinks I have what he refers to as diarrhea of the keyboard in regards to my written reports, I would have to say yes."

And so she was going to be a promising writer, choosing to live in the basement flat to save on expenses. Hermione's things that she wished to take with her over to London were boxed and shipped the next day. The day after she would be dealing with the man himself. As much as she was looking forward to it, she was dreading it just as much.

To give her and her flat more of a writer's feel Hermione went shopping. She ended up getting a laptop and cellular phone that had to be magically protected against her own magic, as well as being so electronically secure as to make one think it held government secrets. Which after she thought about it, it would be doing just that, wouldn't it? His brother was the British Government after all.

On the day she moved in, she went to collect the key from Mrs. Hudson, a sweet woman who owned the bakery next door. She ended up buying some rolls to go with dinner that night and a chocolate custard tart for afters. She drifted downstairs into her flat and went about making the place her own.

**TBC…**

**…**

**There's the first chapter. I'll be posting two today, which won't be happening all the time. I thought it would be good to have you guys have more of a handle of what was happening with the story. Onward, fair reader! The next chapter awaits!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review.**

**Chapter Two**

"I'm **_BORED!_**"

John rolled his eyes and said, "I asked if you wanted to go to the cake tasting and you said no. I inquired if you wanted to visit Mary with me and, again, you said no. If you don't want to do anything other than mope about like a giant pain in my arse, you can very well come up with something constructive all on your own. You are a grown man after all. One would think that you'd be able to come up with some form of entertainment that didn't involve drugs of any sort, being a pest to those closest to you, and you behaving like a bloody three year old expecting to be entertained 24/7!"

Sherlock was about to say something when he went stone still. Sitting up straight, he sniffed the air. John being curious, sniffed it as well.

"Middle Eastern food?" John muttered to himself.

"Tandoori chicken," he corrected him.

John frowned and said, "Mrs. Hudson's never made that before."

"That's because that isn't Mrs. Hudson's cooking," he told him, leaping to his feet and rushing over to the downstairs.

Sherlock arrived to the door that led to the basement flat and tried the handle only to find it locked. He looked it over and rushed back upstairs, grabbing up his lock picks and rushed right back down the stairs. This time John followed him at a more sedate pace and watched as the man attempted to pick the lock.

"Sherlock, perhaps you shouldn't be doing that," he sighed.

"Nonsense, John," he told him. "Locks are made to be opened, whether by key or pick." And that's when his pick broke. "Damn!" He stood up, looking at the thin metal more closely. "That's odd."

"That it broke or that you failed to pick the lock?" John inquired, sounding bored now.

"Both," he said. "But mostly the first. I just bought this."

"It was more than likely faulty metal," John said to his friend.

"No, that's not it. I tested them all," he mumbled and went back to looking more closely at the lock.

But just then the sound of several locks tumbling as well as what sounded like an iron bar dropped to the ground. The door opened, but there was no one there. Curious Sherlock rushed into the flat, straight down the stairs to stop dead in his tracks. Once John walked over next to him, he knew exactly why. There were books everywhere. Bookcases that never were there before were filled to bursting, the countertop at the street side of the room was covered in books as well. The lighting had been replaced with new up to date ones that used energy saving bulbs that lit the room perfectly without it feeling too overwhelmingly bright.

Sherlock took another step in and saw that there was now a small kitchen and dining area to the left on the other side of a very comfortable looking lounge which was facing Baker Street. There was also a coffee table in front of the lounge and it was covered in books, papers, and what looked to be a map of some sort. He went over and picked it up, taking a better look at it. A map of the British Museum, he thought vaguely, putting it back.

The door to the other room opened and a woman who was dressed for going out in what looked like a cream Channel skirt suit with an unbuffed sapphire blue silk tank top of unknown make strolled out while speaking on her mobile.

"I don't care, Harry," she said, sounding as if she had enough of whatever it was they were speaking of. "I couldn't care less if he broke up with Lavender yet again. I am not dating him!" Rolling her eyes, she went over to the kitchen and turned off the oven. "Because if I have to listen to his inane prattle one more time, I will bloody well rip out his throat just so I don't have to hear him speak!" This time she pressed a spot just above her left eye, saying, "And hello, Ginny. No, I dare say I will not date your brother without the aid of a frontal lobotomy." She stopped, looked to Sherlock who was now grinning at her and said, "No, getting one of those isn't an option. I have to go, Gin. Bye."

She hung up and honestly wished that there were more satisfaction to it than touching a screen. How she dearly missed slamming a receiver down. Nothing expressed ire as much as that did to a person on the other side of a phone conversation.

"It's you!" Sherlock and Hermione turned to face John. "The woman from the pub two weeks back!"

Frowning, she asked Holmes, "Does he usually point out the obvious?"

"Not usually, but I attribute it to the shock of seeing you in our flat." He spun to face her. "Speaking of which, why are you here?"

"You mean you don't know?" she asked him, a clear teasing light in her eyes. "Well if you must be told, currently I'm looking for my shoes. I'm going out and I need to find them, as bare feet are frowned upon in public."

"You're going to the new exhibit at the British Museum," Holmes said, deep in thought. "You're meeting someone there, but they aren't your date. And the shoes you're looking for are in the room you just left next to the bed where you left them when you started that conversation about not wanting to date with that man who broke up with a woman named Lavender. Ridiculous name, by the way."

"Not nearly as nonsensical as the woman herself," she told him, strolling back over to the room and grabbing her shoes. Slipping them on, using the kitchen island for balance, she said, "There's Tandoori chicken in the oven. It more than likely only needs about fifteen more minutes to finish…" Her eyes flickered over to John, but she went on with, "The chicken should be finished by now. It's the root veg that needs to finish cooking." She looked over to Sherlock. "So is he going for the chocolate cake with the coffee buttercream for his groom's cake?"

"How…" John started.

"He did seem to like that one best, but alas there shall be no groom's cake. I dare say that his Mary made him eat it all so that she didn't have to finish it."

"Ah, the lemon chiffon with the vanilla bean French buttercream covered in white fondant," she said. "That sounds lovely." She looked over to Holmes. "The bride will get what the bride wants. It's her day. Deal with it."

John frowned as he asked, "How did you know that he didn't like that choice of cake?"

"I heard him yell as much two hours ago."

John blinked as he recalled just that. "He did do that. That being the case, you might want to invest in sound proofing."

**TBC…**

**…**

**And there you have it, chapter two is down. Thanks for taking the time to read. Please let me know what you think of it so far. And to all my fellow Americans, Happy Labor Day! I hope you enjoy not laboring. I, for one, will be looking for a lovely T.V. marathon. Have a great day everyone!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Hi! This chapter goes out to the Guest reviewer who told me that I mixed up induction and deduction. Your review helped me write part of this chapter! Thanks, whoever you are.**

**Please read and review!**

**Chapter Three**

A horn blew outside, making her look over to the street.

"That's my lift! I must be off." Grabbing her purse and her throw, she told them, "Feel free to eat the meal. I'm not the worst cook, but I'm not the best either." She looked over to John, "Congratulations on your upcoming wedding. I wish you happy! And don't let this one muck it up for your Mary. It's her day, not his." She looked to Sherlock. "If you want the chocolate cake, buy it for yourself!" She headed towards the door, stopped and said, "Don't make a mess of my flat, Mr. Holmes. I'm not even completely moved in and if I can't find something due to your insatiable curiosity, I'll be put out."

She was out the door, leaving it open only to have Sherlock right on her heels. Hermione got into the cab and was shocked when she was made to move further in by Sherlock who joined her in the back of the cab, shutting the door and looking over to her. Looking him over, she took note the he had grabbed his jacket and his scarf. His feet were sockless and shoved into a pair of, no surprise, Italian loafers. This was made all the more ridiculous by the fact that the man was still in his navy blue silk pajamas and robe under his outer coat.

She told the cabbie the address and turned back to Holmes saying, "You'll be making a fashion statement that's for certain. But dare I say is it the one you wish to make?"

"It doesn't matter," he told her. "I'm bored. What are we doing there at the museum?"

"Attending a new exhibit on the new bog man they found in Scotland," she told him. "This find was made five years ago."

"Boring…"

"He was murdered." That had his attention. "Rather painfully at that. He was strangled, stabbed, and had his throat slit." She pulled out the folded advert and handed it over to him. "See if you spot what I did."

He unfolded it, looking not at the announcement of the exhibit, but the picture of the bog man himself. "The picture is too faint…"

"Annoying, isn't it?"

"Very," he muttered, but then he went very still. He pulled the page closer to his eyes to no use. "Give me your phone."

Even knowing he more than likely had his own mobile phone with him, she handed it over to him and he took a photo with it. Clearing up the resolution as best as he could, he increased the magnification and enhanced the image itself. His eyes snapped over to her.

"Say what you will about the days of the bog men, but they never had nylon cording," she murmured, as she took back her own phone. "And if this one did, he was far ahead of his time."

Smiling he said quietly, "This might be more entertaining than I thought."

They were silent for a time, as Sherlock was texting and Hermione was watching as the world went by.

"You were wrong," he said to her once he was finished with his text.

"About what?" she asked him.

"I use deduction, not induction."

Hermione thought that over. "Okay."

When that was all the answer he received, he blinked at her, saying, "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" she inquired. "I was wrong. I'm sorry." She worried her lower lip for a time. "That had been a very long day. I can't recall just what I said, only that I thought it was right or else I wouldn't have said it."

"You don't mind being wrong?"

"I am completely pissed I got it wrong." She took her purse and hit it against her door twice. "Okay, I'm over it now."

A smile was fighting to cross his lips as he said, "You didn't have to abuse the cab door. It wasn't the one that was wrong. That was you."

She snorted. "Smart arse."

…

When they arrived, they slipped out of the cab after she paid the cabman and joined him at looking at the front of the museum that was decked out for the party with the large banners letting all know about the new exhibit.

"Americans sponsored this exhibit," she told him, looking at the large cloth banners hanging down the front of the old building. "They really must learn sooner or later that more isn't better."

That gained her a snort of derisive laughter from Sherlock. "Didn't you mean to say that bigger wasn't better?"

She stopped her walking, turning to face him. "I am not having _that_ conversation with you."

"Because you feel that it is better?" he asked.

Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Of course it is. But honestly, Mr. Holmes, are we speaking of the same things?"

"I don't know. What do you think we're speaking of?" he asked her, managing to look utterly innocent as he did so.

"The size of a man's penis." That had him blinking at her. "What has you so shocked?"

"You used the word penis. I could have sworn you'd be one to use cock," he murmured and proceeded to start his brisk walk to the building.

"I do, but I generally don't speak about it in mixed company," she drawled dryly, which had him stumbling somewhat and had her catching up to him.

Once in they went over to the podium and she presented her ticket which was for her and one guest.

"Ah, Miss Granger," the short balding man said, looking at her with a false grin and clear air of distain. "How lovely of you to join us and you brought a guest I see." His eyes went over what Sherlock was wearing and sneered. "How…original."

"Yes, well, it has nothing on your phlegm like air of supposed superiority that you gained by kissing ass and riding others' coattails rather than proving your own worth. This is only made worse by your choice of attire. A brown polyester suit was sure to be a hit back in the day. But alas, the 1970's called and it wishes for you to burn that outfit." The man gasped and turned ruddy at her words, as she looked to Holmes. "Shall we go in? The rank stench of idiocy here is making my headache."

"Seeing as you've said all that needs to be said, let's," he murmured and both went into the exhibit without a single backwards glance.

**TBC…**

**…**

**There you go! Another chapter is in the bag, as it were. Thank you to everyone that's been reviewing, favoriting, and following. I've been enjoying the positive feedback. Keep on keeping on and have yourselves a fantastic day!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review**

**…**

**Chapter Four**

The exhibit was drab, the canapés were nothing short of bland, and she had yet to get to the other exhibit—the real reason she had gone over that day. Dennis Creevey had finally been given back his brother's muggle camera, containing pictures of the Battle of Hogwarts. He had been fighting and taking pictures when he had been killed that fate filled day. Dennis developed them along with older and newer photographs that he himself had taken—again with a muggle camera, as it was much easier to carry about as it was far more portable. Grief had been heavy in the air and Dennis had told her that he needed to do something, anything, to at least forget for that very moment that his brother was dead far too soon.

"Come along," Sherlock told her as he tugged her along. "I found a better exhibit."

"What about the bog man?" she asked him.

"The nylon cord was used to stage him," he said, sounding sour about it. "Nothing interesting about him at all."

"Damn," she sighed. "I had so hoped too." He stopped and looked at her quizzically. "The man's been lying about in a bog for god only knows how long. With the exception of extreme overkill by whomever did him in as a sacrifice, there wasn't much about him that was what any would consider to be thrilling."

"True," he said. "But it's odd when someone agrees with me. Usually others don't."

"That's because in regards to this exhibit, you make perfect sense," she told him. "Now do tell me where you're taking me."

"There's another party going on. Another new exhibit it would seem. I could only see the outside of it, but already it has me intrigued."

That's when she saw it as well. It was the magical entrance of the museum with just a small banner announcing the new exhibit.

"The Unknown War? Already I want to know what it's about," he murmured to her. "I hope it's not about drugs. That's so overdone." He pondered it and said, "I don't know how we'll get in though. It seems they are checking ID."

"Come along," she told him. "I'll get us in."

"How?" he asked her.

"I'm famous," she said dryly and strolled over to the podium with Sherlock on her heels.

"Hermione!" Dennis cried out, coming from within the exhibit itself and threw his arms around her. "I hoped that you'd come!"

"Dennis," she murmured, pulling back and was smiling at him. "How are you?"

His face went a bit tight. "This has been…difficult. I miss him all the more now. But it's done and I think he'd be proud."

"Yes, he'd be very proud of you and the work you did here," she replied.

His face lit up. "Is Harry coming?"

"I don't know," she told him. "I've never known him to come to this sort of thing before." Dennis nodded to this, looking slightly disappointed. "But in the meantime, Dennis Creevey, this is Sherlock Holmes." She turned to Sherlock, who had already assessed Dennis and was already trying to look into the gallery. "Mr. Holmes?" He didn't snap out of his observations. "Sherlock!" His eyes snapped to hers. "I was introducing you to Dennis Creevey."

He looked to the young man again and nodded. "Can we go in now?"

Dennis chuckled. "Please do! Let me know how you like it."

"You know I will," Hermione told him and strolled into the exhibit even as Sherlock sped ahead of her.

When she finally caught up to him, she almost wished that she hadn't. Right in front of them was an enormous black and white photograph. A teenager no older than eighteen, her hard eyes that were directed at the camera telling everyone that looked into them that she had seen far too much. The dark smudges that were clearly blood were covering her face. She was clutching her left arm to her chest with the sleeve of what she was wearing much darker than the rest of what she was wearing denoting even more blood. Her face was set in pain, but her body was slumped in a chair with her right hand being clasped in the grip of a dark haired man's hand as he was worked on by a healer. She was malnourished and her clothing had seen far better days. And it was _her_.

Sherlock turned ever so slowly and looked at her, as if with new eyes. He took in every single fact and somewhere within that disseminated the truth of it all.

"Granger." She turned to see Draco Malfoy coming over with his wife Astoria. "You're one of the last people I would have thought would be here."

"Same goes for you," she murmured. "Astoria, you're looking well."

"Thank you," she said, her cultured tones kind. "I hope you're in good health?"

She nodded, saying, "Yes, thank you." She turned to introduce Sherlock, but found him gone. "Do pardon me. I must catch up with my friend."

Hermione left in search of him and found him in front of another picture. This one was of Ginny, Luna, and herself fighting Bellatrix LeStrange. The magic didn't appear in the photo, as it was a muggle photograph. Smoke obscured most of the picture. But one thing was very clear—Hermione had blood in her eyes. She wanted that woman dead and Sherlock would have been an idiot not to have seen as much.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?" she inquired.

"Why did you hate her?" he asked her. "It's clear that you wanted her dead."

She swallowed thickly, whispering, "I wanted it over. There's a difference."

They kept walking around. There were more photographs of Hermione along with Harry, Ron, Ginny and the others. It was the photo of her sandwiched between the twins that had Sherlock frowning. It was one of the few pictures there where anyone was smiling. The Twins were hugging her and both kissing the top of her head, while Hermione was clearly laughing though at what he didn't know.

"You have a beautiful smile," Sherlock told her.

She shrugged, thinking nothing of the compliment. It was lovely, but something told her that there was more to it with this man.

"Your teeth are perfectly straight," he said casually. "Were your parents dentists?" And there it was, she thought.

"Yes, that they were," she replied, sounding weary.

He looked to her sharply.

"And before you ask, yes, they're dead. And yes, they were murdered. And once again, yes, I know who did it. And no, there is no justice in the world." Taking a deep breath, she added in a mutter, "And yes, I need a bloody drink."

**TBC…**

**…**

**That's another chapter away. Thank you to everyone that's read, reviewed, and followed/favorited. Take care and have a brilliant day.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Bonus chapter! Read! Enjoy! Eat cookies! Enjoy that even more! Review!**

**...**

**Chapter Five**

He had taken her over to her flat where she pulled out a bottle of Daliohinnie, a bottle of water, a glass that looked like a snifter and a lighter. She poured the single malt into the glass, added about half an ounce of water, and proceeded to warm the liquor with the lighter. Once she was finished, she inquired if he wished to have some.

"No thank you," he murmured. "But if I can see how that tastes?"

She handed it over to him. He looked it over, swirled it to see its feet stretching up the side of the interior of the glass and sniffed at it. He let out a hum and proceeded to taste it.

"Well?" she asked, after he handed it back to her.

"I still hate scotch," he told her.

"Good," she drawled. "That means more for me."

He frowned. "Are you an alcoholic?"

She sipped on her drink. "No, but I do like my liquor now and again. Never to what others call excess." She frowned. "Though I have to say that I've found that once I do get drinking, others tend to feed me more of it."

"Why?"

"Harry say's I'm a riot when intoxicated," she told him. She shrugged. "Ron hated me drunk said that I could be a right mean one to him. So I suppose it's whom you ask."

"What would the twins think?" he inquired.

"They love it!" she told him, even as she was finishing her drink. "I still don't know why."

"Here," he said, taking her glass from her and proceeded to fix her another drink. "Allow me."

When he handed her the drink, she looked from it to him. "You're trying to get me drunk, aren't you?"

"Very much so," he told her. "Does this upset you?"

"Seeing as I was going to do so anyway, not really," she murmured, sipping on the scotch. Letting out a long sigh, she said, "Let's go up to your place and we can play a game of cards."

"Why in my place?" he asked her.

"You've a fireplace and if there is nothing better than a fireplace and booze, I don't know what that is." Her face lit up. "Oh a rug!"

Oh this was going to be good, he thought, and went along with her up the stairs to his flat.

…

John came in just after midnight, as Mary had the late shift. He was heading straight up the stairs to his own room only to stop in his tracks and turn around and look into the sitting room. The woman that he had seen Sherlock leave with in nothing more than his pajamas, coat, scarf, and shoes was there draped on the chair he usually used. The petite woman was clearly drunk. And she was now wearing Sherlock's silk robe—and nothing much else. What was more amazing was that Sherlock appeared to be utterly fascinated with her.

"The math was all wrong!" she exclaimed. "I told him that goodness knows how many times, but I might as well been a pigmy elephant attempting to tell him as much with what attention he was paying to me. So he turned in the paperwork, thinking he did it all correctly and when it comes back it was wrong, he blames me, the wanker!" She sipped on her liquor, looking over to John. "Hello, Dr. Watson."

"Hello," he said, looking over to Holmes. "Sherlock, what is going on here?"

"An experiment," the taller man told him. "She's an amazing drunk."

"I don't see what's so bloody amazing about it," Hermione stated. "You're not the one sitting around in your knickers and an oversized housecoat." She snuggled in it. "It's lovely by the way. I love silk." Sniffing at it, she added, "But you need to clean it better, as it stinks of formaldehyde."

"Tell him what you think of the new head in the fridge," Sherlock prompted.

John groaned. "Not another one! And you showed it to her?" He spun towards her. "I am so sorry!"

"As you should be!" she exclaimed. "What medical professional would permit such poor storage of human remains, I ask you?"

He blinked at her. "What?"

"It should be on the bottom most shelf of the refrigerator, not where it is now," she said. "It'll leak where it is, getting over everything. That's cross contamination! What scientist in his right mind wants that? None."

John looked over to Sherlock, whose smile was growing broader with her every word. My God, he thought. He fancies her. He looked back over to Hermione, who was still going on about the efficacy of experiments if one can't think to control what one can—which apparently included the avoidance of cross contamination. So this was the type of woman Sherlock Holmes fell for? Shaking his head, he turned heel and was going back up the stairs when he heard Sherlock.

"And what are your thoughts on the storage of eyeballs in the microwave?"

This question from his friend had John stopping and waiting on the stairwell to see how this went.

"You have eyeballs in your microwave?" There was a pause. "Other than I'm never making popcorn in that machine, I have to ask for what purpose do you have them there?"

"I haven't anywhere else to put them," he answered.

There was another pause. It was her voice brimming with curiosity that came floating up to him next. "Can I see them?"

Rolling his eyes heavenward, John Watson could only think of one thing in that very moment. Heaven help them all, they're a matched set!

…

Sherlock walked her down to her flat. Once to the door, Hermione smiled up at him.

"I had fun," she told him. "Thank you for going out with me despite the fact that you only did so because you were bored."

"You're welcome," he said quietly. "Tell me about the war."

"What war?" she replied, blinking at him. When he said nothing, she murmured, "Oh that one!" She did a shushing sound, as she pressed a single digit to her lips in the universal signal for quiet. "It's a secret. Can't tell anyone. Only can speak about it to people who are in the know…" She paused, swaying slightly as she stood there and let her arm fall back down to press against the door behind her to steady herself as best as she could. "Ah, Sherlock, don't you think that if I could, I would? Between the facts that I can't keep a secret even though I must and your ability to discover anything from anyone, the truth would be found out regardless." She pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him from speaking. "Life would be so much simpler to show you my scars and explain them all, but I can't. How does one explain torture?" His eyes went wider at those words. "There's no sane explanation to it, is there? Because the next questions would be why would I be tortured and how old were you when this happened and I can't…" She fell back against the door, her arm falling back to her side. "I need to get to bed. Don't be shocked if I scream. It'll just be me having a nightmare." She opened the door and stumbled into the flat.

"You have nightmares?" he asked her, following her inside the flat. "I do as well."

She stopped and looked at him. "About what?"

"Falling." This had her nodding in understanding. But then her face lit up.

"I have just the thing for you! Winston!" She rushed over to her room and came back over to him. She handed a stuffed animal to him and waited.

He looked at it. It was a bear the size of a medium sized baby. The dark brown fur was matted and it was missing one of its eyes. It was, for the lack of a better description, falling apart. His long dexterous fingers ran over one of the shoulder seams and knew it had been repaired multiple times over its life span.

"Squeeze it in the middle," she told him, giving him an encouraging smile. "Go on!"

He squeezed it with his hands and was shocked when an automated voice said, "_Pi is a constant_." His face lit up, when he squeezed it again and it said, "_Sulfur is 16 on the Periodic Table_." He squeezed it a few more times and turned to ask her why she was giving it to him, but found that she wasn't standing there. He looked over to her large lounge to see that she was sound asleep.

Sherlock placed the bear down and picked up a throw blanket that was nearby. Carefully as not to wake her, he covered her up. It was with that same utter care that he leaned down and kissed her head. Quickly and quietly, he took up the bear and closed the door behind himself.

**TBC…**

**…**

**And that's chapter five put out into the cosmos. Thank you for your support. This has been so much fun and the ride has just begun! Have a great day one and all.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Good news! The mystery is about to unfold. I hope you like it. Thank you to everyone that has written a review, followed and favorited.**

**I want to encourage you readers to review without sounding desperate. Like many a fanfiction writer, reviews are my crack. So is sugar, but that's not the point. The point is please review! If you have questions, ask them! If you have comments, tell them! If you have pizza, shame on you for not sharing it with me! Just kidding. Bottom line—please review. Thank you.**

**Chapter Six**

"She gave you a Teddy bear?" John sounded truly puzzled. "Why?"

"I told her I had nightmares after she confessed to having them herself," he replied, without bothering to look up from the microscope. "Squeeze it."

Frowning John took it up into his hands and did as requested. The automated voice said, "_Force equals mass times acceleration_."

"Who would give this kind of toy to a child?" John breathed.

"Winston is a perfect bear," came from behind him. "You shan't disparage him!" Hermione came into the room and took the bear from him, hugging it tightly and receiving a factoid that made her grin. "I made him myself when I was nine." She put him back down before asking, "You wouldn't by any chance have coffee, would you?"

"No, just tea," John told her. "I was just about to go out for some milk. Would you like for me to pick you up some?"

"No thank you," Hermione sighed, as she looked over to Sherlock. "What are you looking at?"

"Yeast."

"Why?" she asked absently.

"It was growing on a corpse at St. Barts."

"Is it a common yeast?" she inquired.

"It's used to make ale." He turned his head slightly. "Why?"

"And when you say growing on it, do you mean completely covering it or only in spots?" she asked, clearly just asking the questions without much by way of thought behind them.

"All over it," he said, now facing her.

"How did he die?" she asked him.

"Was found by the Thames naked," he told her. "Drown."

She moved closer to him, this time with a focus behind her inquiry. "Were his lungs checked for type of fluid he was drown in?"

His mind added together what she was asking and he leapt to his feet, exclaiming, "I must see his lung pathology!" And he went running to go get dressed.

John turned from where Sherlock went running off to and looked to Hermione who shrugged and said, "Chances are the man was drown in ale and his body dumped by the river. The murderer must have thought that the investigators would think the river did him in. What poor luck for whomever did the deed that the yeast flourished on the corpse, huh?" She drifted out the door, muttering to herself that it would have taken quite a lot of beer to do the job if it had been the entire body that had been covered with the yeast.

Sherlock rushed into the room, dressed, looking around wildly.

"She went to her flat," John told him. "Well, I think it's her flat…"

Sherlock rushed down the stairs and barged in just as she was pulling on her shirt. Scars of all shapes and sizes littered her back, making a chill go up his spine at the thought of the pain she must have gone through. He must have made some sort of noise, as soon she was spinning around. She looked at him much like a deer in headlamps, even as she was tugging on her sleeves to pull them further down her arms. But he paid it no heed to how she was behaving, as he took up her hand and pulled her towards the door.

"Come along! We're going to St. Barts!"

"Whatever for?" she asked, as she just barely was able to grab her coat, purse and put on a pair of slip on shoes that she usually kept by the door in case of emergencies.

"I'm taking you to the morgue."

"But I don't want to go to the morgue," she told him. "I'll go when I'm dead and may be not even then."

He snorted at that as he waved down a cab and pushed her into it in front of himself. "I'll get you your coffee."

"Why didn't you say so? I'd follow you nearly anywhere for coffee."

He was silent a moment, as he was texting and soon enough was asking, "How about to Trinidad?"

"Always wanted to go there."

"And Alaska?"

Now she was a bit hesitant. "Okay, but under duress and you better have parkas for us."

"And what about the Middle of the African Congo?

She glared at him and muttered, "It would have to be the best coffee on earth."

"But you would still follow?"

She looked at him asking, "Would I have to fly?"

"At some point, more than likely, yes."

"Damn, for once I just want to get somewhere without having to leave the ground."

"Hate flying?"

"You have no idea," she muttered.

…

Hermione didn't know what to blame what happened next on. She was still half asleep and she had yet to see a single drop of her promised coffee. So when they were strolling through the halls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital seeing Harry going one way and she going the other, the greeting was automatic.

"Hi Harry," she said.

"Hi Hermione," he returned and they kept going.

Well, for about five feet.

Then both of them stopped, facing the other and Hermione muttered a curse. Forcing herself to grin, she said, "Harry."

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," she told him, trying as she might to placate him. "Everything's fine…"

"Darling!" Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, pulling her along as he looked over to Harry who looked all the more puzzled. "We must be off to see your doctor! Happy news! Happy news!" He pulled her along and she just managed to send Harry a signal that she would call him right before she was yanked through the doors to pathology.

As soon as they were through the doors, he released her and went about getting the report on the drown man's lungs. Hermione was glaring daggers at Sherlock even as Molly Hooper was looking from one to the other. Without being asked, she got two pain pills, a small bottle of water, and went over to Hermione.

"I'm Dr. Molly Hooper," she said, handing both of the things she retrieved to Hermione. "Here. It looks like you need these."

"How did you know?" Hermione asked her.

"I keep those on hand for myself when dealing with him," she muttered.

"Thank you. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way," she said. "Lovely to meet you, Molly." She took the aspirin, as she looked around the room. "So this is a morgue?" She looked to Molly. "I wasn't planning on visiting one until I died, but Sherlock was rather insistent. Also mentioned something about visiting the African Congo." Pursing her lips, she added, "I was hoping that was a joke, but one never knows with him."

Molly was about to say something when a young man charged into the morgue, waving around a gun. He was sweating profusely and looked to be rather desperate.

His eyes landed on Sherlock, making him totally focused on him rather than the women that were behind him. "Where's my brother?! I know you have 'im here! Where is 'e?"

"I-I don't know," Sherlock said, as he watched as Hermione made Molly keep quiet as she reached into her own purse. "What's his name? Do you know what day he died? That might clear things up as well."

"Lance Bennett," he told him. "That's 'is name, as if you didn't know! And 'e died yesterday!"

Sherlock couldn't see what Hermione was doing, but soon enough the man seemed to jolt and dropped to the floor out cold. Hermione lifted the stun gun in her hand.

"So that's what it looks like when they work?" she asked of no one in particular, as she had never used her weapon on a live person (she had tested it on a dead pig) until that moment. "This makes me so happy I never tested it on myself to see what it did."

Sherlock went over and carefully took it from her hand, examining it. "Why did you get this?"

"I bought it to use on Ron Weasley," she told him. "I wanted to use it on him when he kept asking me to marry him and wouldn't take no for an answer. I ended up kicking him in the crotch, when I got too upset to think properly."

A small smile graced his face. _Good girl_.

**TBC…**

**…**

**And there goes chapter six. Let me know what you think of the newly budding mystery and what you think it's about. I've been eating up the reviews like candy—they have less calories and are more fulfilling, they're perfect. LOL! Thank you again and have a great day.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review!**

**…**

**Chapter Seven**

The Yard showed up ten minutes later with Chief Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan in the lead. Sally took one look at Sherlock at the microscope and she was rolling her eyes.

"Oh great. The freak is here."

"I beg your pardon," a woman came up behind them. "What was that you said?"

Sally turned around even as Lestrade went over to speak to Sherlock. Blushing the police officer said, "Nothing worth repeating."

"If it's nothing worth repeating, chances are that it wasn't worth saying in the first place," she said, walking past her and over to Sherlock and placed one of the coffees she bought next to him. "They didn't have anything I deemed excellent, but their French roast appeared to be passable." She sipped on her coffee, letting out a long sigh of appreciation. "Caffeine, you are a lovely elixir of the gods." Greg was grinning at her. "Hello, I'm Hermione Granger."

"Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade," he introduced himself, and shook her hand. "How is it that you came to be here?"

"My parents thought it would be fun to have sex during the intermission of _A Winter's Tale_ at the playhouse they were watching it at." She had been unmindful of what she had been saying until she had heard Sherlock snickering. She flushed, muttering, "I took him too literally, didn't I?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, grinning to himself.

"He dragged me here far too prematurely. Personally, I do believe one shouldn't have to come visit any morgue until one is good and properly dead. But, Sherlock here had other ideas and here I am." She looked over to one of the glass cabinets. "This place is just packed with gross, smelly dead things." Her eyes narrowed on something. "Ooh, a kidney! Do you think Molly would mind if I looked at it?"

"Just don't take it out of the jar," he called out to her, as she rushed off to look at it.

Greg studied her a moment before saying, "You know, I think I've seen Hermione before." Shaking his head, he said, "But I haven't a clue where."

"That's great," Sherlock said impatiently. "That man found along the Thames two days ago just didn't drown. He drown in ale…" Lestrade's eyes went wide at this news and Sherlock continued to give him what information he knew.

Meanwhile, off to the side near where the kidney filled to capacity with kidney stones, Hermione pulled out her mobile and texted Harry. She assured him that she was fine and that no matter what he may be thinking right at that moment, the man she had been with wasn't mad.

Her phone rang a moment later and she answered it, "House of dead things, live guest speaking."

"You're at the morgue? Why? For that matter why are you even in London?" Harry asked her.

"I'm much like a base element, Harry. I'm just everywhere," she answered, as she opened the jar lid to look at the kidney.

"Ha-ha," he said dryly. "Tell me why you are in London or I'm sticking Ginny on you."

The last thing she wanted to deal with was either Harry or Ginny. Giving them explanations about her newest dealings for work was about as appealing as trying to solve for pi to the millionth digit. Sure there might be some entertainment there, but after a time it would be dull work in deed. She looked down at the open jar in front of her and did the only thing that came to mind—she dropped the phone into it.

"Oops." She spun around to see both men watching her, as she pulled it back out again. "I need a new mobile phone." She tapped off as much of the liquid back into the jar with the kidney. She made a disgusted face as she muttered, "Yuck." Hermione rushed out the door, calling out behind her, "Apologize to Molly for me!"

Hermione went down the hall, finding the women's loo as quickly as she could as she knew that Sherlock was only ten to fifteen seconds behind her and was catching up very fast. She got inside of the restroom and disapparited away.

Sherlock skidded to a halt, looking around. Upon seeing the swinging door to the restroom, he went over only to find it completely empty. No windows, no other doors, and she vanished yet again. Clenching his fists in frustration, he swore he would find out all of her secrets—this included.

…

Severus was passing by Hermione's office, stopped and went back over. There she was hammering her phone with a rubber mallet. And from the look of it, the thing couldn't get more shattered.

"Don't you think you've gone into overkill by now?" he asked her dryly. "It can't get much more broken."

"Sure it can." She placed her wand to it and it exploded into a million pieces of glitter. "What can I do for you?"

He looked at his watch. "Shouldn't you be at work guarding Mr. Holmes?"

"I needed a break," she told him, going into her desk and pulling out an ice cold butterbeer. "Want one?"

"No thank you," he murmured, as he walked into the room and sat in her guest seat. "What's he done?"

"Nothing." When all he did was stare at her, she went on with, "Harry was at St. Barts. He saw me and now he wants an explanation. Meanwhile, the great detective is trying to deduce me." She leaned back and took a sip of her drink. "It's been a long day and the man doesn't eat when he's investigating." She sipped on her butterbeer. "How the hell can he do that to himself?"

"You're hungry?" He laughed to himself, as he called a house elf. He quickly ordered them a meal and the elf popped away to see it done. "So Potter is being a pill about you being in London without you informing him?"

"He's threatened to put Ginny on me," she muttered into the bottle. "I have enough shite to deal with, Severus. I don't need this too."

"They care for you," he said, just as their food arrived. "But knowing Potter he'll more than interfere with this job."

"Might? They know I'm in London and Harry's seen Sherlock…"

"He'll put two and two together," Severus muttered, as he picked up his utensils. "And seeing as Mr. Holmes has one of the most famous addresses in England, he'll likely find you, no doubt, by noon tomorrow."

"Something like that," she replied, fixing her sandwich. "And I need a new phone."

"That happens when you magic one down to the size of a million or so atoms," he told her dryly.

Her face went pink. "I dumped it into a jar with a kidney floating in a viscous liquid first." When all he did was stare at her, she reluctantly answered into her sandwich, "It was the only thing I could think of to do at the time."

**TBC…**

**…**

**That's another chapter out to you. Thanks to everyone for taking the time to read, review, and follow/favorite. I've been having so much fun with this and I'm glad that you all are along for the ride as well. Have a grand day everyone!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**BONUS CHAPTER!**

**I know. I know. Anderson was canned. This is just a reminder that this is an alternative universe story. After all, if it weren't so, Severus Snape would be dead, wouldn't he? Enough said? I thought so.**

**Please read and review.**

**…**

**Chapter Eight**

It was an angry Sherlock that sat at the microscope when a note was shoved in under the door to his flat. He went over and picked up the paper. The white copy paper was only one fourth of an 8½ by 11 sheet and only held numbers.

_01001000 01101001_

Binary code. Simple word.

_Hi_

The feminine writing was flowing neatly, but not overly flowery. It was clear that whomever wrote this was accustomed to writing numbers as easily as one would text. A mathematician.

Another note was shoved under the door and he caught it easily.

It was a set of geographical coordinates that would take him into the downstairs flat and Morris code that was asking him to dinner. He had work, he thought, even as his own traitorous body took him over to the flat downstairs. He let himself in and found her looking at two rather odd cardboard and paper creations—one a donkey and the other a multi-pointed star with colorful streamers.

"My godson's birthday is coming up," she said without being asked. "Which one of these do you think he'd want at his party?"

"What are they?" he asked her.

"Piñatas," she told him, glancing over to him. "You put candy into them and they hit it with sticks. Personally, I think this is rather off putting, as it's revealing violent tendencies and rewards them for the most brutal attack. But Harry wants this for Albus and usually his wants prevail in matters such as these, seeing as he is the boy's father and all." She lifted the star. "Yes, I do believe the star wins it for me. At least it doesn't look like anything living that the children know of at any rate. Hungry? I made Shepard's pie."

He watched her putting the paper craft things (he had already deleted the name and function from memory) to the side, going over to the small open kitchen.

"I'm on a case," he told her, as he watched her donning oven mitts and pulling out the pie in question to allow it to cool on the countertop on a thick pad. "Where did you go?"

"I got myself something to eat," she told him, yanking off the mitts. "Why don't you eat while on a case?" She tilted her head. "Studies prove that keeping yourself well maintained helps with mental acuity."

"It diverts my attention for too long of a time away from my task," he told her, as she went about getting herself a plate. "Even taking the time to sleep or digest is too much time away from my work at hand."

She was of the mind to tell him just how ridiculous that sounded. Honestly, the man was as stubborn as twelve oxen. But it wasn't her place to lecture him on anything. And more importantly, she told herself, he was an adult. If he wanted to behave like an idiot, _let him_.

"Holding back what you know to be the truth of it all is proving to be painful," he said to her. "You're biting your own lips, Hermione. That tells me everything I need to know on the topic."

Glaring at him now, she told him as she served herself some of the meal, "Tell me about the ale man."

"As you know, he was drown in ale. A significant amount of what I surmise was a microbrew, as it hasn't matched any of the well-known brands thus far."

Nibbling on her food, she said, "You know it's not a backyard brewer that came up with your ale, as the quantities you would need to immerse a body would be far more than they typically manufacture." She paused to take a sip of her bottled water. "Are you looking at the other microbes amongst the yeast?"

"Yes, though I am not personally doing so," he said to her, watching as she took delicate bites of her food and ate it with care. "Anderson is testing for other trace. He's an idiot, but he's far better equipped than I."

"Perhaps you can ask your family to give you a scanning electronic microscope or a mass spec for your birthday?" She set down her plate before asking, "Care for some water or do you have a rule against hydrating yourself as well while on a case?"

"Water is fine," he told her. "And they refuse to get me either machine." And then proceeded to mutter under his breath, "Damn them."

She chuckled as she took out another bottle of chilled water from her mini-fridge and handed it over to him. "Do you blame them for not doing so? Given what you know about yourself, which do you think would do you in first? The sleep deprivation or the starvation?" Hermione snorted at that point. "And let us not forget the possibility of a nicotine overdose."

He glared at her. "You're making it sound as if I don't know my own limitations."

"You do know your limits, but it's not as if you pay them any mind. Is that any better than ignorance of them?" She gave him an arched look. "I say not."

"Are you attempting to change me?" he inquired.

"No, you're a grown man and your reasoning is your own…"

"But?" he interrupted.

"But that doesn't mean that I will not point out the fallacies of your theories or the inane logic you put to them." She went over and was a foot from his face as she told him in a hard voice, "Do what you will, but I'll always tell you my opinion—right or wrong."

He studied her intensely before walking away. Hermione had thought that she might have gone too far when she heard him calling out to her.

"Aren't you coming?! We're interviewing the wife of the victim!"

Setting aside her plate of food with a wandless, silent stasis charm, she grabbed her coat on her way up the stairs. Sherlock paused to wait for her, as she locked up and followed him out to the late afternoon.

…

Hermione stood out on the street, looking out to the entire neighborhood. When Sherlock said that they were going to be speaking to the dead man's wife and neighbors, she had thought nothing of it. They would go there, he would ask his questions and siphon off the relevant information from the absolutely useless. It's what he did—and he was the best at it.

And yet here she stood in the middle of Privet Drive. This wouldn't be neat and it would be far from simple, she reasoned. She saw Mrs. Dursley peeking out her window, looking at everything and everyone—Hermione included. Mrs. Figg was watching television in her sitting room with her multitude of cats. Behind her Sherlock had already done an assessment of the same things she was looking at. After taking all of this in only one thing came to Hermione's mind.

_What the bloody hell did she do that would make fate hate her this much?!_

**TBC…**

**…**

**And that's another chapter out to you. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and follow/favorite. I hope you enjoyed it. Have a grand day!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review!**

…

**Chapter Nine**

Mrs. Aria Michaels, widow of the victim Horus Michaels, was a petite woman with a bird like face, tiny body, little hands, and feet that should only be on a professional basketball player. She thanked them for coming over and offered them tea on the way into the sitting room. The sitting room was clearly the woman's domain. It was filled to the brim with prissy overstuffed furniture and god awful pink tea roses everywhere ones' eyes could look. Hermione doubted Horus even stepped into this room for anything more than to ask if dinner was ready. And perhaps, not even then. Hermione declined the offered tea for both of them politely much to Sherlock's irritation.

She managed to send him a very quick message with her foot on the side of his own foot via Morris Code, "**Doubtful anything hidden in here.**"

His head turned ever so slightly towards her as Hermione said to the widow, "I know we don't know each other, but I'm a frequent visitor to your neighbor Mrs. Figg. As a result your husband and I had a nodding acquaintance. I thought it just right for us to come in and give you our condolences. Isn't that right, luv?"

Sherlock looked into her amber eyes for a moment before saying, "Absolutely right, honey buns."

Her foot came down on his, but he kept the pain from the impact from showing on his face. "Darling, you promised not to say that in public no matter the truth of it." Hermione smiled with a nearly undetectable false sweetness to a slack faced Mrs. Michaels. "Newlyweds with our silly little names for one and other!"

"Eh…" Aria stammered, clearly not knowing what to say.

"Drowning in the Thames," Hermione said, changing the topic. And in doing so, she was hoping that she didn't sound as ghoulish as she had thought she did. "Drowning in the Thames. How awful!"

"Oh, he would never," Aria said, shaking her head violently. "He had a fear of water, he did."

"Really?" Sherlock breathed, sounding uninterested. "And what did he think of beer?"

"He loved it," she answered, looking towards Hermione. "He was a member of a home brewing club. In fact, the last meeting was two days before he was found on the banks of the Thames." She sniffed into her hankie then. "Many of the neighbors are members of the club. They've all been by with their cards and condolences." She brushed an absent tear away. "I still can't believe he's gone."

Sherlock made an excuse to run off to the loo, leaving Hermione there alone with the widow.

"So are you a relation to Mrs. Figg?" Aria asked her.

"No, my granny and she were school mates with her back in the day," she answered quietly, nearly wincing when Sherlock managed to make a sound when he was fast searching either the kitchen or a desk in the other part of the house.

"So Mrs. Figg is really old?" she asked.

"I haven't a clue," Hermione responded, trying to come up with something somewhat believable. "But I know my granny was a late bloomer, if that means anything."

"My God, woman! Where did you come up with that one?" Sherlock demanded, now glaring at her from the doorway to the room. "Never mind. We're done here."

Mrs. Michaels saw them to the door.

"Thank you for coming by," Mrs. Michaels said. "But I suppose it's like the Good Book always says."

"Yes, the Good Book," Sherlock echoed.

Hermione hadn't a clue what either of them were speaking about and it showed.

"You know, darling," Sherlock said, almost prodding her into an answer. "Thee Good Book."

"Oh, that one." She still hadn't an inkling of which they spoke.

"Tell her your favorite passage for a time of grief," Sherlock told her, hugging her shoulders as he was clearly about to get her the heck away from there no matter what she uttered.

Not knowing what to say, as she hadn't a clue about anything to do with whatever book they were speaking of. With only one thing coming to mind, Merlin help them all, she said it.

"Here today, gone tomorrow." And just like that, Sherlock rushed her away.

It wasn't until they were a good fifty feet away that Sherlock let her go and burst out laughing.

"That was the best you could come up with?" he asked her, still laughing. "Brilliant!"

"I don't know whether to thank you for the compliment or stomp on your foot again for that last bit," she said. "What now?"

He took a breath, his whole demeanor changing as he said, "The neighbors." His eyes narrowed on her. "How did you know that the neighbor's name is Mrs. Figg?"

"Really, Sherlock?" He blinked at her and she answered, "That's because I know her." Hermione walked towards the house and knocked on the old woman's door.

The squib opened the door, blinked at her twice, and beamed a happy smile. "Miss Granger! What a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting you until next Wednesday. Come in, girl, come in!"

"I hope you don't mind, but I brought a guest," she said, looking over to Holmes who was now standing next to her. "Sherlock, this is Mrs. Arabella Figg." She looked to the older woman. "Mrs. Figg, this is my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Any friend of yours is always welcome, dearie," she told her. "Come in! Hope cats don't bother you, Mr. Holmes."

"Not at all," he muttered, even as he got an eyeful of all the cats. Deducing that these weren't the only cats she may have had, he asked, "Just how many do you currently own?"

"Oh, about twenty at the moment," she answered. "They find their way over here. They always do. I see them fixed so that there won't be any more homeless cats out there without a good home and tend to them here until I can get them into a forever home of their very own." She smiled kindly. "It's the least I can do." Her old eyes focused on Hermione. "Now what are you really here for?"

Hermione chuckled. "I never can pull the rug over your eyes, can I?" Smiling she went over and sat across from Mrs. Figg. "I'm here for two reasons. What can you tell us about your neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Michaels?"

Frowning she leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as she thought over what she knew. Sherlock was about to say something when Mrs. Figg started to speak.

"They're a quiet couple. Keep to themselves for the most part." She worried her lower lip a moment before going on with, "At least she does, but him, Horus, he's something of a social drinker. And every day was a social occasion, if you get me."

"Alcoholic?" Sherlock inquired.

"He was a good old fashioned drunk, Mr. Holmes," she sighed. "He didn't go to meetings, he went to parties." She grinned mischievously, saying, "I read that on a card once."

"What do you know about the neighborhood beer brewing club?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs. Figg snorted. "They don't brew anything but trouble! Mark my words on that one. None of them have the sense God gave a flea never mind the brains to brew a bottle of beer. They pulled together that make believe 'club' to give them more time out drinking." She looked over to Sherlock, her old eyes watching him intensely. "You looking into that young man's death, I take it? Makes sense. Nothing about what I heard about Mr. Michael's demise makes a lick of sense."

Sherlock frowned as he pressed, "How do you know that?"

Mrs. Figg smiled kindly and said, "No one volunteers to swim in the Thames, dear."

**TBC…**

**…**

**That's another chapter out to the fanfiction realm. Thank you for joining me in the fun. Have a glorious day everyone!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review!**

**…**

**Chapter Ten**

Hermione looked at her watch, asking her, "When is Ana due to come over today?"

"Oh the poor dear got sick," she said. "Melody will be here tonight about six."

"Very good," Hermione murmured. "Have you been eating?"

"Of course I have," she replied, even as she was avoiding looking into the younger woman's eyes.

"You're a horrid liar, Mrs. Figg," she murmured, making the older woman flush. "Have you or have you not been eating?"

"So I might have missed a meal or two," she muttered. "The cats needed the food more than I!"

"What have I told you? That you can't take care of the cats if you neglect yourself," Hermione said with a gentle sternness. "You don't want me calling Harry about this do you?

"Oh! Don't bother him. I'll eat. I promise," she replied, as she walked them over to the door. "Are you going to be speaking with the Dursleys?"

Hermione looked to Sherlock who nodded and back to Mrs. Figg, saying, "More than likely. Why?"

Her old eyes shot over to the Dursley's house at number 4 and said, "She hasn't been the same since her husband passed two years back. Shocking, but I think she's worse than ever." She pursed her lips. "Good thing Harry's a grown man now and out in the world with people that truly care. I'd hate to imagine him with only the likes of that hateful woman in his life." The two women hugged. "Give my best to the others. Do you know when the wedding is?"

"This next winter," Hermione told her. "I already marked you down as coming so you have no excuses!"

The older woman laughed joyously and waved to them as they went on their way.

"Whose wedding was she speaking of?" Sherlock asked her.

"Fred and Angelina's," she told him. "Harry is Fred's brother-in-law. And the woman you wish to speak to next? That's his aunt." She felt herself getting angry, thinking of the years of abuse Harry had endured thanks to that woman his aunt as well as his dead uncle. Pushing down that fury, she said rather flatly, "She is not a nice woman."

They went over to the front door and knocked. The door swung open and she looked from one to the other in an accusatory manner, hissing, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Hello, Mrs. Dursley," she said. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm a friend of your nephew Harry Potter…"

The woman's eyes narrowed as she spat out, "You're another of those freaks! You're no better than a blithe on us poor normal people! Go away! Leave me alone!" And proceeded to slam the door closed, making Hermione flinch with the vigor in which it was slammed in their faces.

They were silent a moment before Sherlock said mildly, "Your mastery of understatement cannot be measured."

"I'm sorry about that," came from behind them.

They spun around to see a heavy set man about Hermione's age, dressed as if he had just come back from the office. "Mum's had a bad couple of years. Took my dad's death very hard. But then again, we both did." Smiling wearily, he said, "I'm Dudley Dursley, what can I do to help you?"

"You might not remember me, but I'm a friend of your cousin Harry's. I'm Hermione Granger," she introduced herself. "I'm here with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He wants to ask you some questions about Mr. Michaels."

"Oh, yes, shame that." He began bouncing from foot to foot, as this whole business was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. "Thing is, I don't know what good I could be for any answers. Horus and I hung out with different sets. My wife and I keep to home with my mum for the most part with a few nights out now and again. We're staying in all the more now that Tina's expecting our first."

"Congratulations," Hermione murmured.

"Thank you," he said, his smile proud. "Will you pass that on to Harry? I know we only do the Christmas deal, but I think he'd like to know that he'll have more family soon."

"I will," Hermione told him. "Can you tell us anything at all in regards to the beer brewing club we've heard about?"

He thought that over and said, "I don't drink. Haven't had a sip of booze in years. But if anyone should know anything about this club you're asking about, it would be Piers Polkiss." He pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen from his pocket, jotting down an address and phone number. "He's lives in his parent's old place around the corner. Got it when they died. He's a drinker and a ruffian when he has one too many in him." He looked to Sherlock. "And he _always_ has one too many in him. So take care." He looked to her. "Both of you."

…

Piers Polkiss was an old drunk ahead of his time, Hermione thought as she watched him sipping on a cheap brew from a booth Sherlock and herself were watching him from. He had lost much of his black hair prematurely, his skin had the permanent ruddiness of a long time drinker, and his beer gut was straining an already painfully worn out pair of pants. All in all, he was rather sad. And the last thing she wanted was to be there, dealing with that man.

Because there was something else she saw in him too. He had a streak of mean in him that even a blind person could see. She had seen as much when they followed him and he had kicked a dog. Sherlock had lost Hermione for a moment, as she had gone over and covertly healed the mangy mutt. The dog had followed them from that moment and was currently sitting under the table, drinking from a bowl of water she had given to him.

"I don't like this idea," she whispered. "He's too unpredictable."

"Calm yourself," he told her. "There's nothing he can do that we can't handle."

"Just because you're lacking in a healthy dose of self-preservation…"

He moved so that his mouth was but a hairs breath from her ear. And in low, husky tones whispered, "If you play along, I'll buy you a pound of the best coffee in England…"

A chill went up her spine and made the hairs go up the back of her neck. Sadly she didn't know which did it for her—the offer of coffee or his deep, husky tones. Swallowing thickly, attempted to put it into perspective. True, the coffee would be lovely, but it was the man himself and that voice of sin that had her pulse racing.

"Civet coffee?" she breathed.

"Yes," he hissed, making her shiver in reaction. "Precisely. I'll buy you a pound of it. Though why you would want that, I don't know. You know they collect that from an animal's feces?"

"Yes, I know, but it's divine and is well worth the price. It's nearly as perfect as your voice," she said, her own voice going huskier. "It should be made illegal."

"You find my voice sexually stimulating?" he asked, curious as to the answer.

"Yes," she told him, turning to look him in the eyes. "And so does any heterosexual woman within hearing of you."

"Piers left to go to the restroom," he said, back to his normal all business tone of voice—which was like an ice cold shower on her arousal. "We should confront him in the hallway on his way back out to the bar."

"I still think this is a bad idea." She looked under the table to the dog, who looked right at her. "Stay here and do your best to keep safe. I'll whistle when it's time to leave." He licked her face. "Good boy."

When she stood up, Sherlock was looking at her with disbelief. "The dog doesn't know a word of what you said. He won't stay put!"

"He's much brighter than you give him credit for," she told him, as they walked over to the hallway. Hermione just wished she had as much confidence in what was to happen, as she did in the dog.

**TBC…**

**…**

**There you go! Another chapter has been handed out. Please let me know what you think. Thanks once more and have a beautiful day.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**CAUTION! Violence ahead. You've been warned.**

**Please read, enjoy, and review!**

**…**

**Chapter Eleven**

Hermione walked into the hallway, wishing that this were a wizarding establishment. Merlin, at this point she wished that Sherlock Holmes was a wizard and his brother was only being overprotective because of his own machinations! But no, that wasn't the reason and well she knew as much. She was there to protect him, do so smoothly and without Sherlock discovering her magic, and keep the self-described high functioning sociopath in one piece and breathing.

Something told her that riding that dragon out of Gringotts was an easier task than keeping Sherlock safe without letting him know about her magic. But that's where her training came in handy and with any luck…

An arm shot out and Hermione was grabbed from behind. Next thing she knew she was being dragged into the storage closet she was passing. Letting out a yelp in surprise, Sherlock spun around just in time to see her being yanked very quickly into the closet and the door banged in his face.

Fear had Sherlock hitting the solid door with his shoulder, as he heard the scuffling going on within. Soon enough it was silent. Now slightly panicked, he pulled out his lock picks and began to work on the locks in question.

Within the closet, Hermione managed to kick him away from her. Piers was glaring at her blurry eyed and clearly far drunker than either Sherlock or she first thought. Trouble was that apparently he was a very high functioning drunk—his one main function being violence.

The man pulled out a set of brass knuckles, slipping them on and making a fist as he snarled, "I'll show you what nosy bitches are good for."

She hummed, as she pulled out her wand and flicking out a spell that had him unable to move. "I'm a woman of few words, Mr. Polkiss. Allow me to share a few with you right now."

All that was heard outside in the bar was a loud scream of pain filled terror. When Sherlock finally was able to get in, it was to find Hermione leaning against the shelving as she stared in perplex fascination as the man across from her kept hitting himself in the crotch with his brass knuckles.

Turning towards Sherlock, she said, "I have no idea what just happened here. None whatsoever." She looked at Piers, wincing as he was hitting himself all the harder. "Uh, you might want to call the authorities. He doesn't seem to be stopping."

Piers Polkiss was taken away to a mental facility. The paramedics were amazed that anyone would be doing such as he was to himself.

"That takes self-abuse to a whole new level, I tell you," one of them said to the uniformed officer, who nodded and continued to take down their eye witness testimony.

Soon enough, they were finished and Hermione let out a high pitched whistle. The dog scrambled over to them, sitting down next to Hermione and waited to see what was going to happen next.

"Good boy," she told him, scratching him behind his ear. Standing up, she looked over to Holmes. "What now?"

"Did he tell you anything?" he asked her.

"Nothing pertaining to Michaels," she informed him.

"What did happen in there?" he asked her. "And don't you even try to tell me the same nonsense you did to the police."

"He yanked me inside. I managed to kick him away from me, at which point he pulled out these brass knuckles, told me that he was going to show me what nosy bitches were for, and, before I knew it, he was repeatedly hitting himself right in a place no man I know of would ever do as such. The only thing I'm certain of is that he was going to beat me bloody." She frowned. "I think his brain must have shorted out with the copious amounts of alcohol he consumes."

"I don't buy that," he muttered.

"Just as long as you buy me that civet coffee, I don't care what else you purchase," she replied dryly. "Now what do you think of Logan?"

"For what?" he asked.

"A name," she told him.

Frowning at her, he inquired, "For whom?"

"The dog."

He gave her a flat look. "You can't name a dog Logan."

"Why not?" she asked him.

"Because I would never name a child that, let alone a dog."

She thought that over. "Good point."

The great dog name debate, as John was later to call it, went on until well past the time they had arrived back to Baker Street. It was as John and Sherlock were speaking that Hermione slipped into the bathroom and sent a quick text to Severus on her new mobile phone. The text had Piers Polkiss's name, the mental hospital he was currently in, the spell she used on him, and the reason why she used it in the first place. She then sent a second text, this time to Harry, telling him that she saw his cousin and aunt. She also told him about his cousin's good news and that all were well. That being done, she went to the restroom, washed her hands, and brushed her teeth.

As soon as she rejoined them in the sitting room of her flat, Sherlock asked, "Done sending texts you didn't want me to read?"

"Yes," she told him, not bothering to lie. It would only have been insulting to both of them to try. The as yet named dog, got up and went over to where she was lounging and laid its head on her lap. She scratched him behind the ear for a moment before getting to her feet and headed for the kitchen. "Care for something to eat, John?"

"What? Oh, no thanks. Just ate." He watched her start to fix a meal. "Aren't you going to offer any to Sherlock?"

"Why should I bother? He won't eat it," she said, as she kept working on it. "Doesn't want to focus on anything other than the case. Which is a shite excuse and we all know it. But if he wants to deprive himself of nourishing his brain when he needs it the most, who am I to make him do it?"

"I'm glad to see at least one person grasps that I need to focus on my work," Sherlock said, as he went over to the door. "If I'm needed, I'll be in my mind palace upstairs." He left, shutting the door behind himself loudly.

"I wonder," Hermione said to John.

"About what?" he inquired.

"If he honestly doesn't recognize sarcasm or if he deleted the comprehension of such without getting rid of the 'how to use' segment from his brain," she murmured.

Both were silent a minute before each erupted into laughter.

**TBC…**

**…**

**And that is another chapter into the finish file. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and taking the time to follow/favorite. So do you have any ideas of what's going on yet? Review to let me know. Have yourselves a great day, everyone!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**BONUS CHAPTER! This here extra chapter will hopefully push away those blah blues that always occur at the beginning of the week.**

**Read! Enjoy! Do the hustle! Giggle at your own silliness! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twelve**

Someone was shaking her. Merlin, why?! Sleep, that elusive bitch, had been forever in coming to her. And now she had a rather insistent consulting detective attempting to shake her awake. She just wasn't going to have it.

She snapped awake, yanked him down to the bed, rolled over on top of him and kissed him for all she was worth. Not that it mattered, as he wasn't joining in. Well, she wasn't going to have that either. Hermione nipped the fullness of his lower lip, making him gasp. She slowed the kiss, deepening it in degrees until he ever so slightly joined the fray. Her eyes slid shut, as her hands grasped and held tight to the front of his jacket. She knew somewhere in her sleep and lust heavy mind that if she did as she had wanted and ran her fingers through his dark shaggy hair, it would have spooked him.

His eyes never closed, as he watched her the entire time they kissed. The woman couldn't hide a single emotion passing over her features. She wasn't doing this out of need to manipulate, but because she had wanted to. She, Hermione Granger, had wanted to kiss him. What this was, he thought, was utterly different. And something in him liked the kiss all the more for that reason. It was tender, dare he say, sweet by the time she pulled back and looked down at him.

"Now that's how you properly wake a woman who has said she finds your voice attractive, Mr. Holmes."

"I must file that away," he said huskily, as he watched her getting up.

"Now why is it you're here at…" She looked at her clock. "Good grief, Holmes, it's four in the morning!" She looked at him, lying casually out on her bed with his arms folded behind his head and his legs crossed. "Four should only come once a day and now isn't the…" She caught the scent of something. "You brought me an espresso?"

He smiled and said, "It's in the kitchen. Get dressed to go out and you can drink it on the way over to the crime scene."

Looking heavenward, she asked, "Is there such a thing as caffeine anonymous?"

Frowning he asked, "No, why?"

"No reason," she grumbled as she went about grabbing some pants and a long sleeved top.

"What does 'mudblood' mean and why do you have it carved into your arm?"

She froze, looking sharply at her left arm. Merlin, it had been so stuffy in the flat that she hadn't thought about putting on her sleeveless shirt to sleep in. What to say? _What to say?_ She yanked on her other shirt on top of what she was wearing and just pulled on her jeans over her boxer shorts. Grabbing her jacket, she went out to the kitchen and took up the paper cup there.

"I asked…"

"I know," she whispered. "And I told you before that there are things that I can't speak about. That's one of them." She took another sip of her coffee, muttering, "It's moments like this that I wish I was prone to having a bad memory. It would be a lovely excuse, don't you think? 'Sorry, chap! Forgot it the moment it happened!'" She turned to face him, her memories haunting her as she did. "But damned if I can't forget a single fucking thing and I can't even tell the one person I want to the most."

"Why would you want to tell me?" he asked, intensity in his every movement as he walked towards her. "What makes me so special to hear this story of yours?"

"You are not judge, nor are you juror. You are a very intelligent man, who likes to be told, not just any truths, but the only ones that matter. You fracture and solve mysteries of the highest caliber. And, above all, you don't want to be told how to do any of it. Boredom to you is a crime, as serious as murder. And at heart, you are a rebel. For all of those reasons, Holmes, I know that you would comprehend my story without me softening it or turning it into something it's not." She looked down at her now covered up left arm. "It's not a fairy tale." She put down her coffee and slid on her jacket. Clearing her throat, she inquired, "Where are we going, Holmes?"

He walked over to her flat's door, telling her, "Tripoli Italian Bakery. They found a body."

Taking up her coffee once again, she frowned as she asked, "That sounds relatively mundane."

"They found him under approximately two tons of bagged sugar."

Her eyes went a little wide as she breathed, "That's…different."

…

Hermione slipped out of the cab, looking about the crowded car park next to the loading docks. Several Tesco trucks and their drivers were waiting with the workers of the bakery. Clicks of people milled about, gossip spreading like wild fire amongst them. Sherlock walked briskly over to the yellow tape and lifted it for Hermione to go under, following her over to the entrance were Chief Inspector Lestrade was speaking with several of his officers.

Hermione drifted more than she walked, making her way over to stand next to Sherlock as he took his first look inside the plant bakery itself. He made a noise of disgust, looking over to her.

"Look," he told her.

She turned and looked inside. The place where they found the body was close by. Odd, she thought, normally it wasn't stored there. Why? Something happened where it had been, but what? She looked at all the bags and noticed a dark staining on the plastic covering one of the towers of sugar. It was water staining to be precise. Which means that they would have to move the sugar if only temporarily to a new location until the building could be fixed.

She looked at the pallets of sugar themselves now. Two pallets high, it was a significant amount more than what had been surmised as to the weight. There was no way that was only two tons of sugar, she thought. More like around…she did the calculations in her head, stopped long enough to see where the sugar came from, and finished up with the math. It was six short tons which killed that man and whomever said differently was a fool.

"Whomever told you that it was only two tons was an idiot," she muttered, which gained a crack of laughter from Sherlock.

A squawk of indignation came from within the bakery and soon enough a reed thin man, slightly shorter than Sherlock came over to where they were standing before them. He had taken one look at Holmes and snarled, making him look more like a bizarre combination of an irritated scarecrow and a snarling Dachshund puppy. It was weird to see, but overall not enough to make a child flinch let alone either of the people currently in front of him.

"You," Anderson snarled. "I should have known. Why don't you leave this work to the professionals?"

"If you're considering yourself a professional, you'd be painfully wrong yet again," Sherlock told him. "And seeing as you couldn't be bothered to figure out that it wasn't two tons of sugar that killed the man, it is still further evidence that I.Q. tests should be given to all employees of Scotland Yard…"

Hermione drifted over to where the Chief Inspector was glaring at both of the bickering men.

"Good morning, Chief Inspector," Hermione murmured.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he said, smiling warmly. "Sherlock dragged you here?"

She nodded, looking back over to the men as now hand waving was being added to the mix. "Do they carry on like children on a playground all the time?"

"They've been getting better as of late," he told her in a resigned voice and winced when Sherlock delivered a particularly vicious insult. "But they still have their moments."

"Pity you don't get paid extra to put up with such," she said, casually. "You could call it kinder-pay."

It was Greg's laughter that had Sherlock breaking off the argument. His eyes narrowed as he walked over to Hermione.

"Are you done with your nonsense?" she asked him. When all he did was stare at her, she then asked, "Well?"

"Yes," he muttered.

"Good, because I didn't leave a warm bed to stand outside of a bakery at the crack of dawn in order to watch you fight with that man like a couple of school boys with nothing better to do with your time than have a pissing contest."

Anderson gave Sherlock a mocking smile only to have Hermione spin on him and snarl, "Knock it off! You want to be treated like a professional. Start here and now. And you do that by not starting a row in front of a car park full of people looking for something to gossip about like a bunch of old hens." When he opened his mouth to protest, she stopped his words with only a narrowing of her eyes. "I've only had one coffee this morning. Trust me." She snarled the next words, as her eyes went all the harder. "Do not go there."

**TBC…**

**…**

**That's another chapter wrapped up and sent out to you. I can't believe that I've already posted twelve chapters! This is all speeding by. Sigh. Thank you for your support and have yourselves a delightful day.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review!**

**…**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Hermione looked to Sherlock. "I need another coffee."

Nodding, Sherlock pointed the way into the bakery with a sweep of his arm.

Behind them Greg stated aloud, "If she's looking for work, I'll hire her."

"Not available!" Sherlock yelled back to them.

They strolled into the plant, taking in everything around them as they went. Dry goods, all moved from another location from within the plant were near the front doors, but off to the side and clear of whatever weather may enter when the trucks were being loaded or unloaded. The sugar was up ahead and to the right. There was a group of milling police officers keeping the middle and upper management at bay, none of them looking happy that their business was put to a standstill and for reasons they had nothing to do with.

"Do you know who I am?" an older man demanded of a uniformed officer, who didn't look impressed more out of ignorance than anything else.

"I hate that question," Hermione whispered, which had Sherlock laughing to himself even as they passed them and went straight over to the body.

The smell of decay hit her hard and made her wish that she was anywhere but there. Biting her lower lip, she recognized the smell of old blood, sugar, and, once again, gore that created a foul miasma that would have had her emptying her belly—if there had been anything to empty from it. Hermione made herself look at the body. Crushed and discolored it was hard to tell that the poor bastard was human, let alone a man. Merlin, why had she come here? Why? Wasn't seeing death during the war enough for you?

Hermione swallowed thickly and walked away from where Sherlock was investigating. Absently, she looked up to the ceiling. A leak had them moving the dry goods. A leak from a ceiling that looked to be something they had only put in within the last six or so months? That would have been believable if they had done a poor job of it. But no, there were no signs of other leaks or poor workmanship that she could see from where she was.

"Hermione!"

"I'm right here!"

He followed the sound of her voice around the corner to spot her twenty meters away looking up at the ceiling.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"There's signs of water leakage on the plastic wrapping around the dry goods," she pointed out to him.

"Yes. What about it?"

"The ceiling is new," she murmured. "The entire thing is from the looks of it. Six months old if the safety certificate at the shipping bay entrance was correct." She looked over to him. "How long has the man been dead?"

"He was killed approximately twenty-four hours ago," he said, deep in thought.

Hermione looked over to him and said, "Chances are that's when they moved the dry goods."

He nodded to this.

"Which would make that a convenient leak," Hermione said without inflection.

"Very," he muttered, spun on his heel and went about getting someone to take them over to where they used to have the dried goods stored.

…

The food that she had thought not to be in her stomach was threatening to come up all the more the moment she looked down. Merlin preserve me, she thought, closing her eyes tightly and swallowing hard. The leak, that fucking leak, was just over about twenty-two meters off of the ground. Pull yourself together, woman! You've ridden on a dragon for Merlin sake! You can stand on a far too wobbly scaffolding. And yet there she was in the middle of that damn thing, unable to climb to the higher tier or find a way to climb off of it all together.

It shook and she gripped the metal all the tighter, swallowing back the bile yet again. You can do it, she told herself. You have skills. You're a witch. Whatever happens, you can handle it. Hermione looked at her hands and it was as if the signal from her brain wasn't reaching them. How bothersome.

"Hermione?" She looked over to Sherlock, who had come back down from the top of the scaffold where he took a look at the leak overhead. "You're scared."

She nodded to this, cleared her throat and said, "I've never done well with heights." She tried to smile. "At least this time I'm not screaming like a banshee."

That had his lips twisting slightly. He went over to her, standing closely and began to massage her bloodless fingers in order to get them to relax.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just let go. You won't be able to get down to the ground safely unless you do."

She relaxed her hands and eventually she was able to release the metal. He tilted her head so that she was looking up into his eyes. "Don't look away. Just keep looking in my eyes and I'll get you down from here."

She nodded and did as he said. Five minutes later she was standing on the cement floor, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time in a half an hour. Hermione pressed her hand to her forehead and was doing her best to gather her wits. She was about to thank Sherlock when her mobile phone rang.

She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at it. Harry. She should have known. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she answered the phone.

"What?"

There was nothing followed by, "You haven't had your coffee. That I get. But what I want to know is what caused you to have a panic attack approximately twenty meters in the air?!"

Hermione thought that over and said, "I'll get back to you about that." She hung up. "He means well." She shook her head. "It was that or destroy another phone and something tells me that the carrier wouldn't believe me two days in a row." Hermione looked over to him.

"Wise decision." He offered his arm to her. "Coffee?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she replied, slipping her arm through his as she placed her phone in her opposite pocket.

When he changed his stance and slid his arm around her waist, she turned to him saying, "If you wanted my mobile phone, why didn't you ask for it?"

He pulled away from her, saying, "I don't want it!"

"You already have it then?"

"Of course," he replied, moving away from her as he leveled her phone to be able to read the screen. "You have no numbers stored in this and the calls that come in don't get recorded." Sherlock looked over to her puzzled. "Why is that?"

Snagging her phone back, she said, "I don't know. It's just one of those things I suppose." Hermione put it back into her pocket. "You're thinking I did that on purpose?" She laughed at that. "The next thing you'll say is that I have some proficiency with computers."

He didn't believe her for a second.

**TBC…**

**…**

**There it is the next chapter on display! Thank you one and all. All of you have been making this so much fun. I can't wait to hear what you think about what you've discovered about the mystery so far. Be cool and have yourselves a copacetic day everyone.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**BONUS CHAPTER! Two days running? What is the world coming to? Hope you like it.**

**Please read, review, eat a brownie, and enjoy it all.**

**…**

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Where is the dog? He wasn't there when I went to fetch you to go to the murder scene."

The question had Hermione looking up from her breakfast, murmuring, "He's over at a friend's place currently. He's a vet. I was worried that there was more wrong with the poor dog than what I could see. He said I can pick him up at the end of the week."

Sherlock leaned back in the booth they were sitting in, watching her intently. "So you intend to keep him?"

"I find that I miss having a pet around," she told him. "I had a cat for the longest time. Crookshanks was old when I got him. But he was too stubborn to die before he was willing to, I suppose."

"That's just foolishness," he pointed out to her. "When it's your time to die, you die. It's as simple as that."

"If you say," she murmured, going back to eating her breakfast and taking a long sip of her coffee. "Do you think the ale man is connected to the dead sugar man?"

"Most definitely," he told her. "You saw the man that was crushed by the sugar, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I deleted it from my mind." Or at least she had given it her level best to do as much, as she wanted to keep her food in her stomach.

"You what?!" He was honestly outraged by her claim.

She took a bite of her food, looking over to him. Swallowing she said, "I deleted it."

His eyes narrowed on her, as he thought over what she had said. "Why?"

"Perhaps I wanted to store something more important there?" she suggested. "Perhaps I wanted to have full recollections of both of my doctorial papers there rather than that poor, incredibly smelly, bloated…Ah fuck me!" She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead even as Sherlock was laughing. "You're a right bastard, Holmes."

"I know," he crooned sarcastically and asked, "Did you notice that he was morbidly obese?"

Her eyes opened, moving her hand away and looked over to Sherlock. "An alcoholic that drowns in beer and an overweight man that was crushed to death by sugar?" She looked into his eyes and asked him very quietly, "Are you looking for a serial killer?"

"I might very well be," he said, his voice low. "Exciting, isn't it?"

She took a deep breath and said, "I know what you mean and how you meant it, but that doesn't make what you said any less sick."

He shrugged and proceeded to steal one of her chips. If Hermione wasn't so happy he had eaten something, she would have protested. As it was, she just pretended not to have noticed. He didn't attempt to do so again at that moment. But when she had gone and came back from the loo later on, three more chips and a couple bites of baked beans were gone.

…

When they arrived back at Baker Street, not only was Harry there, but so was Ron. And neither of them looked happy when she came strolling over with Sherlock. She told him that she needed to talk to them and went over, nodding them over to Speedy's. She ended up buying a double espresso and sat down with them.

"What the bloody hell are you doing in London with that-that…" Ron lowered his head and hissed the last word, "…muggle!"

"What I am or am not doing with that man is none of your business, Ronald," she said coolly. "You are my friend, but that is it. Nothing more, nothing less. And even if we did date, something that will never happen again let me remind you both, you still wouldn't have any say as to whom I socialize with." She took a sip of her coffee and let out a long breath. "You two take the cake."

They looked to each other and back over to her, clearly puzzled.

"It didn't work between Ron and me. I've dated others. Hell! He's dated others. But you two keep coming back to this!" She glared at them both, but her eyes settled on Ron. "I'm not your go to girl, Ronald. I'm not waiting around for you to decide that you're ready to settled down. And it's an insult given what you think about me…"

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked.

Ron's face turned red and he stammered, "It doesn't matter."

"He thinks that no other man would ever want me for who and what I am, which to him is a lowly bookworm with little by way of marital prospects let alone any sexual appeal. And of course since you told him that I've been speaking and socializing with Sherlock, he had to come with you to kill whatever may be there in the bud so I'd be the sexless bookworm waiting in the wings once again."

Harry turned hard green eyes on Ron now, as he was sinking in his chair with both of them angry at him.

"We're friends," she said as she got to her feet. "And I love you both like brothers." Leaning down, she said in a low hard voice, "Attempt to interfere with my life and you'll never know what hit you." Standing up straight again, she added, "Just ask the twins where they got that idea for that last prank they pulled."

Both their eyes went wide as she strolled out of Speedy's, murmuring, "Mr. Holmes." as she passed him.

Sherlock spun away from the window.

"Miss Granger," he drawled, as he joined her in walking to the flat. "So that's Ronald."

She paused and looked at him, waiting for him to say something.

"What about him appealed to you enough to date him?" he asked.

She rocked back and forth on her feet, before saying, "Proximity and hormones." Her eyes went back to his to find him thinking about her answer.

"That's logical," he murmured. "But surely there were others where you were at that would have appreciated you and weren't idiots."

"No," she said. "At that school, as sad as this is for me to say, Ron was the best of the lot. It only got worse from there." The thought of Cormac was enough to make her shudder with revulsion. "So what now?"

"I must think," he said, taking her by her elbow and guiding her back over to 221. "And you'll do whatever it is that you do." He frowned. "What is it that you do?"

"I was thinking about writing a book," she told him. "But I find that it takes imagination and the willingness to use it. I have plenty of imagination, I just haven't been wanting to use it as of late. This is clearly laziness on my part." She made a noise of irritation. "I'll probably be doing some Mathematics. It always helps me relax."

"What kind?" he asked her, as they reached her stairs.

"The kind that is only dreamt of sweetly in the minds of gods," she murmured, strolling down the stairs. "But we lowly mortals only catch glimpses of in our nightmares."

**TBC…**

**…**

**Another chapter has been downloaded to the universe. Any ideas, questions, or comments in general about the mystery? Review! Let me know. Thank you for jumping onto the bandwagon that is my story! I've been having a fun time and I sincerely hope you are too. I hope you have the bestest day ever.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read, enjoy, find something in the world at large to be happy about, review!**

**…**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Hours later Sherlock went downstairs and was fully prepared to pick her lock. It was not only unlocked, but the door was wide open as well. He entered the flat as noiselessly as possible. He looked into the room to find that there was a piano being played quietly. The totally unrecognizable tune floated in the air, but what held his attention was Hermione.

Sitting facing a whiteboard, she held a dry ink marker in her left hand as she played the electronic keyboard with her right. She stopped playing and stood up, adding more numbers and symbols to the board. Pausing she looked at them all again, pursing her lips in irritation.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, walking over to where she was.

"Oh this is just…nothing," she told him. "A problem I've been working on halfheartedly for a time." She capped her pen. "I had a professor accuse me of being lackadaisical when I didn't put more effort into it."

"What is it?"

She turned and blinked at him. "It's the Unsolvable Problem." Looking at it, she added, "I don't put my full effort into it more out of what I've seen become of those who have done so." Putting the pen down, she asked, "Care for a cup of tea?"

"No thank you," he answered. "John was out and I needed someone to bounce ideas off of."

"Well then, I need a cuppa then," she told him, as she walked over to the kitchen. "A good cup of tea can solve anything my mum told me. I told her later she was only partially correct in her theory."

"What doesn't it solve?" he inquired.

"Advance mathematics and stained teeth." She set the kettle on the stove. "She got quite the kick out of that last bit."

He walked over towards the kitchen, stopping next to her. "Your parents. How did they die?"

She was setting up her tea cup, as she said in a low voice, "I sent my parents to Australia in order to keep them safe." She tossed out the wrapping of the tea bag more violently than she needed to, showing clearly her upset. "Two weeks later they were found, tortured, and ultimately murdered. I didn't discover this until nearly a year later when I was trying to find them."

The images of their house with their blood painting horrid messages to her covering the walls flashed through her mind. Her fingers rubbed at the spot between her eyes near the bridge of her nose, as if it could do more than lessen the tension in her head. But rather could remove the nightmare from her brain itself. Drugs, booze, and sex never worked she reminded herself. And somewhere in her head she knew that rubbing at her head wouldn't solve anything either.

She stopped rubbing and planted her palms on the counter in front of her. "The police thought it was a cult that did the deed. Like the Manson family in the United States back in the late 1960's."

"It wasn't." She shook her head no. "And you know who did it?" This time she shook her head yes. "Are they still alive?" This time she could only shrug. He moved over to her, turning off the stove and asked, "How can you not know?"

Tears dripped down her face, as she said hoarsely, "That way lies madness."

…

The nightmare struck without warning. Harsh and brutal, the face of a mad man lingered and exploded. And before too long came the fall. That horrible fall that felt like forever. Staged, yes, but still it had to be taken to save the others. And save them he had, if only for that small bit of time…

Sherlock lurched awake, blinking rapidly. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Normally he was able to keep sleep at bay. But it had come upon him like a fog—slow to arrive and settled thickly before he knew what he was about. Leaning back in his chair, he rested his head on his palm looking to the case board in front of him. Notes, pictures, and diagrams littered it.

A loud thump coming from downstairs had him sitting up straight. This was followed by another, and another, and yet another thump. The last one managed to rock the furniture. He got up and rushed down the stairs, finding Hermione's door open. He went over and found her trying to get two redheads who were managing to get away from her, while they told her all about their invention. He looked to the ceiling to see a clay like substance in neat little mounds that didn't look to be dropping any time soon.

"Just tell me how is this…" She pointed to her ceiling. "…testing your product?" she inquired of them. "I told you I needed part-time work to make some pocket change, not get into trouble with my landlady!"

One of them fell down and nearly hit one of the twins on the foot. But having had to dodge them for the better part of a week, avoided it. Hermione leapt over the back of her lounge to avoid one hitting her head, snagged her foot on the back of it and ended up on her bum on the floor. Sherlock growled at the sight of her sprawled on the floor. He went over, lifting her up to her feet as he glared menacingly at Fred and George.

"Get those off of her ceiling and if I find out that they have at any time injured her, you both shall be hearing from me," he snarled at them.

"Yes, sir!" they said, honestly fearful that he may very well hurt them.

Now looking over to Hermione. "And you! If you needed pocket change, you should have come to me! You've been more than able to tell me everything else you wanted to say. So why not that as well?"

"I, uh, never thought of that," she said to him. "It's not as if I'm in your employ."

"Then what have you been doing these past two days?"

She stood there thinking for a time before saying, "How much are you going to pay me?"

"As you'd be an intern, not much," he told her. "Added to that the hours will be long and your employer is said to be a pain in the arse. Or at least I've been told so by the short, at times, annoying, know it all I've been dealing with as of late." He took her into his arms and spun her around to keep her from getting hit yet again by one of the blobs on the ceiling. "We can't stay down here. Come along, Granger. I'll show you the new collection of tongues Molly got me."

Her eyes went wide, as she followed him up the stairs asking, "Entire tongues or just the visible part people know of?"

They went up the stairs with the twins watching them.

"I think they like each other," Fred told his brother.

"I think you're right," George said to him, just as one of the blobs hit his brother on the head. Looking at him on the floor, he muttered, "Not again!" And he went to work reviving his twin.

**TBC…**

**…**

**Another chapter has passed into that goodnight. Any questions yet? Review! Thanks for coming along and I hope you have a whimsical day.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Read! Enjoy! Keep on being the excellent individuals you are! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Sixteen**

John came in from work in the predawn morning hours to find Sherlock staring at his board. He was about to speak to him when he saw Hermione sound asleep on the lounge, hugging the bear she had given to Sherlock. In her sleep she squeezed the bear, it spouted off a fact, and she drifted into a deeper sleep smiling to herself as she did so.

"What's she doing up here?" he asked Sherlock in a whisper.

"Her flat is currently too dangerous to be in," he muttered. "But that is beside the point. Did you get those autopsies I asked you to get?"

"Yes, but I'm shocked you didn't get them from Molly," he said, handing them over to Sherlock.

"She had the night off and I wasn't about to deal with anyone I don't have to," he muttered, looking over the reports. "There's no connection between them. None whatsoever! Even though their deaths may be similar, they have no connection with each other!"

"Coffee," Hermione murmured, looking like she was going to sit up.

"Sleep," came from Holmes.

"'Kay," she breathed, settling back down and was soon asleep once more.

John frowned, looking from the woman on the lounge to the man looking over the reports he was reading yet again. This was too amazing, he thought.

"Sherlock, I was thinking that perhaps you and Hermione would like to go out to brunch with Mary and me this afternoon. It's nothing fancy, just a simple eatery near the hospital."

"John, you know I don't eat when I'm on a case," he said sounded perturbed that he had to remind him yet again.

"If not for you, think of Hermione." That had Holmes looking at him with suspicion. "She needs to eat, unlike you, and she would probably put off eating as to not be rude to you."

Rolling his eyes, he said, "Very well. We shall meet you over at this restaurant. What's the name of it and what time shall we meet you two there?"

Unbelieving, John gave Sherlock the information and was about to leave to go up to his room to call Mary when Hermione sat up, wide awake in an instant and said, "Meetings."

"What?" both the men asked together.

"The victims fought personal demons, correct? Perhaps not well, but they did. And if they fought them, giving it the old college try as my father was prone to say, then they would have wanted support. And where does one find support, but…"

"Alcoholic Anonymous and Overeater's Anonymous," Sherlock breathed. "But we have no proof that they did."

"Not unless they were made to do so by the courts," Hermione said, ending with a yawn. "If the drunkard got behind the wheel and was subsequently arrested for public intoxication and driving while under the influence…" She covered her mouth, as she yawned again. "…it's typical to assign that sort of meeting to them, isn't it?"

"How do you know that?" John asked her.

"I had an uncle who got drunk out of his mind on peach brandy and proceeded to drive into a Tesco. And when I say into it, I literally mean _into_ it," she murmured. "He called his sister, my mum, and she didn't have a babysitter so I went along with her to the courthouse." She wrinkled her nose. "I was only six at the time and half asleep as well. All I can recall of is the smell of vomit in the court house, as most of the people there were so on drinking charges."

"So what became of your uncle?" Sherlock asked her.

"I don't know," she told him. "After my mum bailed him out they got into a terrible row and we left him standing there in front of the Magistrate. I asked my mum years later why we never saw him and she explained to me that he wasn't the brother she knew anymore. She told me that we were far better off without him in our lives. She refused to speak about him again after that."

Sherlock studied her a moment. "That's why you're as cautious as you are about drinking excessively."

She nodded, but ended up yawning again. "Sleep?"

"Sleep," Sherlock murmured and both men watched as she curled up once again on their lounge.

John watched as Sherlock took up the throw and covered Hermione with it, caressing her hair as he did so. The tall man froze, turning his head slightly towards the good doctor.

"Shouldn't you be running off to your room in order to text Mary to set up the meal out that you made up in order for your wife-to-be to meet Hermione?"

John blinked at him. "Right. I need to get some sleep as well, if I want to make it to that brunch. See you later." He left, but he didn't go far.

He watched from the hallway, as Sherlock sat down next to Hermione and just watched her for a time, as he caressed her hair. John took note at the way he watched her was usually the way he tended to focus on a great mystery. He then leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead and another to her temple as he nuzzled her hair. He pulled back and tenderly, tucked one of her wild curls behind her ear. The sight of this nearly had John's jaw hitting the floor at Sherlock's actions.

"Sleep well, my little furtive intern. We will have much to do once you awaken." He stood up once again and went back to looking at his board.

Shocked John went up the stairs and called Mary.

…

Hermione and Sherlock stood outside of the courts waiting. Sherlock was playing on his mobile while Hermione watched people walking about. A woman crying with her children close at hand, fresh bruises littering her face and her arm in a cast. Hermione let out a disappointed sigh, as the woman was there to bail her abuser out. Tired and upset over what should happen to the children if he should get his hands on them—and she knew it was only a matter of time for that occur—she left Sherlock's side and went inside. Quiet as a mouse, she went about her business and soon enough found the man, as he was growling orders to the woman with his barrister by his side ignoring the threats he was issuing to the petite, battered woman. He was a big man with more anger and vitriol towards any female that crossed his path than anything else. He glared at Hermione as she passed him. She hit him with a wordless, wandless spell that would have him flopping about on the ground like a flobber worm if he dare attempt to beat either the woman or children and kept going straight over to the restrooms.

She attended her business, washed up, and went back outside. Slipping up next to Holmes, she noticed that he looked a bit winded.

"If you didn't eat, you wouldn't be needing to run off to use the loo," he said to her, not looking up from his phone. Just as she was going to ask him if he had followed her, he received a text. "Come along. Lestrade has the reports for us."

**TBC…**

**…**

**And there you go, that is another chapter bitten into. Thank you to everyone that's taken the time to review, follow and favorite. Here's to hoping you all have a blessed day.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read, play checkers, enjoy, and review.**

**…**

**Chapter Seventeen**

The meeting with Lestrade was brief, strained, and, overall, one that Hermione would have loved to have missed. Sherlock handed the papers to Hermione with the order to scan them quickly and to tell him anything of relevance. She glared at him as she went about scanning the words in front of her quickly.

"Why are you making her read them?" Greg asked him.

"She's learning to be a detective," he told him. "And it is her job as my intern to do mundane tasks such as this. Now hush, George…"

"His first name is Greg," came from Hermione, still reading next to him. "One would think with your memory palace you'd recall the man's god given name."

"Don't be ludicrous, Hermione. God didn't give him that name, his parents did." He rocked on his feet. "I see I have more work training her than I thought…" She hit his arm with a slap. "What was that for?!"

"Start talking like I'm the one in need of training and I'll buy a bloody newspaper and smack you on the nose with it every time I think _you_ need training." She buried her face back into the papers once again, missing Sherlock pouting and Greg grinning like a fiend. "What was the sugar man's name?"

"Langston Pritchard," Sherlock told her.

She handed him a paper. "Lawsuit against Ryan Air."

He took it and read it over. "There's nothing here about meetings."

"No," she agreed with him even as she pulled out another paper and handed it over to him. "Horus Michaels, criminal charges."

"Different courts," he muttered. "There's something I'm missing…"

Hermione looked at her wrist watch. "Currently that would be the brunch you told me about that John invited us to eat over near St. Bart's. You also said something about how he wanted me to meet his Mary."

"If we must," he muttered, and started walking away without another word to Lestrade.

Hermione turned towards the Chief Inspector even as she was rushing to keep up with Holmes. "Thank you so much for getting those, Chief Inspector. See you later!"

Smiling the police detective said, "You're welcome. See you later, Miss Granger."

…

They arrived to the restaurant a short time later to find John and Mary already waiting at the four person table for them. Hermione waved to them both, as they made their way over to the table. John made the formal introductions and everyone sat down. Sherlock was silent from the moment he had entered the restaurant. Hermione was wondering what he was about, but her mind was pulled off the topic with the conversation between John, Mary, and herself.

"We haven't had time to get to know each other and Sherlock here hasn't told me a thing," John said.

This had her looking over to Holmes, who said, "I've told him enough."

"Oh good," she murmured. "So, Mary, how are your cats?"

Mary just blinked at her. "Uh, they're fine, thank you."

"So tell us about yourself," John repeated, feeling Mary's discomfort over what Hermione had asked.

"I was born and raised in a township just outside of London, my parents were both dentists, I was an only child…" She paused in her story to order herself a coffee and a bottle of water. Once everyone had ordered their drinks, she went on, "I had a normal childhood…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "I meant my early childhood, Holmes." He acknowledged this with a nod of his head. "I went to a private boarding school in Scotland. Later I went onto uni and attained two doctorates. One in Mathematics and the other in Ancient Languages and Symbols." She accepted her coffee with a grateful smile and took her first greedy swallow, letting out a long sigh. "Hmm, I am so happy caffeine is not on the band substance list!" She managed to drink the rest of her coffee, asking, "What about you two?"

"I'm just a nurse," Mary said. "And happy to be just so."

"That's what counts, does it not?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Exactly," John said, grinning at Mary with her smiling sunnily at him as well.

They managed to drift from one topic to another, Sherlock not speaking the entire time. By the time they were ready to leave, the happy couple had issued a formal invitation to the wedding to Hermione. She thanked them, taking the invitation and putting it away in her purse.

It wasn't until Hermione was in the taxi going back to Baker Street that Sherlock said anything once again.

"What did you think about Mary?" he asked, his voice low.

"She's a hell of a lot more than just a nurse and you damn well know it," she murmured.

"Tell me what you saw," he demanded in a low voice.

"Very smart, strategic, she knew where every person was in the restaurant," she stated.

"So did I," he pointed out to her. "So did you for that matter."

"But the three of us do so for different reasons," she replied. "I do it out of habit so that I know my back isn't to anyone coming into the room. You do it, so you can deduce the room at large. She does it, because she isn't necessarily the hunted, but the hunter." Hermione thought back to what she saw. "Photographic memory, amazingly mental agility, and she is very, very dangerous." His eyes went sharp at those words. "But above all else, whatever she may or may not be said about her, I am positive of one thing."

"What's that?" he inquired, deep in thought as he turned to see the traffic they were passing.

"She loves John," she said. "If anything I'm sure that if a person were to put that relationship in jeopardy, they would be in danger."

"You think she would kill to keep John?"

"Oh yes, most definitely." She looked out to the street, deep in thought. "Especially now that I do believe she's making the attempt to get pregnant."

Sherlock frowned. "How do you figure that?"

"It's just a feeling. She clearly feels far safer with John. Their relationship is concrete in her mind now that the wedding is forthcoming. Perhaps it was that security is what she needed to want to try for a baby?"

"They never stopped touching each other once during the meal," Sherlock murmured.

"How could I miss that?" she replied. "But I can't disparage them their little touches. I'm only thanking whatever deity may be listening that they aren't prone to making out in public like Harry and Ginny."

They were quiet for a moment before Sherlock inquired, "Why Ancient Languages and Symbols?"

"I discovered boys, pot, and booze after my parents' deaths. Mostly, it was boys and marijuana." He kept watching her. "I could keep up my grade point average despite all of the above in Ancient Languages and Symbols. Well, that's until I imploded and my friends put their collective feet down. I wrote my doctoral thesis from hospital."

That had him snickering in self derision. "For me it was heroin and Chemistry. I never did get as far as thinking about a doctorate. One overdose and I found myself in rehab. Never did get to finish up school."

"We fucked up, Sherlock." Sighing she leaned her head on his shoulder, asking, "Do we ever truly make up for our missteps?"

His fingers began to absently caress her smaller ones, whispering, "I hope so."

**TBC…**

**…**

**And there it is, another chapter handed over to you. I hope you like it. As usual, I hope that if you have any questions or comments, please review. Thank you one and all. I hope you have a superlative day!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read and review! Please play Twister with your friends! Please have fun and laugh loudly doing it! Thank you.**

**Warning! Violence ahead!**

**…**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Hermione woke up in a blink, not knowing what had woken her in the first place. It was as she was sitting there that she realized that her wards were going off. Slipping from her bed, she dressed quickly and quietly. Grabbing her extendable titanium baton, she went into her sitting/dining area.

She had no sooner passed into the room when the door slammed shut and two hands went around her throat. Throwing her body back at the assailant, she hit him into the door hard and managed to spin them around so that she was now facing the closed door. Hitting back into him again, she made him stagger backwards. Now having the room to operate, she ran up the door face, and landed on his shoulders with both feet. Extending her baton, slammed it down across his face. He screamed in pain, as she dropped from her feet, grabbing his shoulders with her hands and used her momentum to land both of her knees into the middle of his spine. He dropped to the ground, grabbing his back in pain. Going out of the flat, she rushed up the stairs, past what was left of her door, and arrived just in time to see John shooting the man in the shoulder that was trying to strangle Sherlock.

She turned her head slightly at the sound of shattering glass downstairs, but didn't have the energy to see what it was about at that moment. Breaking himself free of the assailant, Sherlock's eyes flashed around the room until his eyes landed on Hermione. He did a quick assessment of her slumped in his doorway and proceeded to run out of the room, going downstairs only to find that her flat door was broken in two and the attacker gone out a window he had broken to escape. When he got back upstairs, he went straight over to Hermione's side. Off to the side, John was tying up the man that had attacked Sherlock with zip tie restraints.

Sherlock turned her to face him, tilting her head up in order to look at her neck. Her delicate throat was red and already bruising from the look of it. He touched it lightly and saw her flinching in pain. Anger had him gritting his teeth, making him want to beat the man that had done this to her.

She caught his hand at her face, her thumb caressing the back of his hand as she mouthed the words, "I'm okay."

"John…" He cleared his throat. "John, come here. Look after Hermione. Her neck." He coughed.

"Yours too," she said roughly.

John came over and said sternly, "The both of you are going to hospital. I'll have no arguments from either of you."

Hermione arched her brow, even as Sherlock glared at him. Chief Inspector Lestrade arrived and would be accompanying the three injured parties to the hospital. Hermione managed to get the notebook away from Anderson, scribbling a quick note and handed it over to Sherlock. He grinned and handed it over to Lestrade.

"I broke the man's nose and I think I fractured his spine?" He looked over to the petite woman in front of him. "Who?"

She pointed to her neck and pointed down the stairs towards her own flat. Eyes narrowing, Sherlock went back down the stairs to her flat with Lestrade on his heels. Turning on the lights, he looked over the living room. It spoke to him, telling him exactly what had occurred to her and what she had done in turn to protect herself.

He looked down at the carpet as he walked over to the door, looking at the slight indentations there made by her feet into the wood. Tracing lightly over the small foot print going up the wood, he could see what happened in his mind's eye.

"I think I'm in love," he whispered hoarsely without thought.

"What was that?" Greg asked, clearly amazed by what he thought he had heard.

"Nothing," he croaked, spinning around and walking out the flat.

Soon enough they were at St. Bart's, where they were both given ultrasounds of their necks. After which, John told them in no uncertain terms that neither of them could speak for a full day.

They looked towards each other and back to him, giving him raspberries in stereo.

"Very mature," John muttered, as he wiped his face off.

To which Hermione wrote out a note, handing it to him.

"My Grand-da was a lifelong footballer. I could get a lot worse," John read aloud, to which Sherlock let out a hoarse laugh. The doctor rolled his eyes, but ended up grinning nonetheless.

But the smiles were not to last. As soon as they were out front of the hospital two cars, both black—one a BMW and the other a Chrysler 300 pulled to a stop in front of them. Both cars had heavily tinted windows, making it impossible to see whom was within them. And yet, they both knew.

Hermione and Sherlock looked to each other. She pointed to the Chrysler and then herself. He pointed to the BMW and then himself. They both looked back over to the cars just as the doors popped open.

"Fuck," they muttered together and walked over to their respective vehicles.

Hermione had no sooner slipped into the car, when the door shut behind her and Severus handed her a healing potion. Taking it without a word, she downed it.

"I know what happened," he told her. "Attacked at the same time. Can't say I saw that happening."

"Neither of us did," she muttered. "More fools us."

He nodded. "Needless to say, I will be putting men on sentry duty from now on around the two of you. You will stay close to him."

"Do you know why this happened?" she asked him to which he shook his head not.

"That's what you're going to find out."

"Who attacked us?"

"Two thugs by the names of Lawson and Turner," he said with distaste. "They'd been arrested before for break and enter charges together several times. One time each of domestic abuse and a bar fight respectively. They've never had anything on their sheets for attempted murder."

"Always a first time for everything," she muttered, making to open the door.

"Sherlock." She looked at him sharply. "Send him over to me when you cross paths to speak to Mycroft."

Her eyes narrowed for a millisecond before, leaving the car. Sherlock left the BMW, both of them pointing to the other before pointing to the car they had just vacated. Both stopped and sighed heavily. Both of their heads fell forward in slight defeat as they knew that their respective meetings couldn't be avoided.

Bucking up, they continued onto the other cars and slipped into them.

She closed the door and looked over to Mycroft, whose eyes were blazing with anger.

"I hired you to protect my brother, not to play detective."

Oh no, she thought sourly, this wasn't going to go well at all.

**TBC…**

**…**

**And that's another chapter taking the long walk off the short pier. Thank you to everyone taking the time to read, review, and follow/favorite. And guesses yet about the mystery? Any at all? Review and let me know. Thanks again and have a Zen day.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Read! Sing your favorite song! Enjoy! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Nineteen**

"You knew that there would be limitations on what I could do to protect him this time around," she said, her voice hard. "I couldn't very well pop into their flat and play witch defender, now could I?"

That seemed to have him pulling back and letting out a long breath. His eyes did a once over on her neck. "Took a potion? How typical."

"Yes, because being healed expediently just makes no sense," she shot back dryly. "Keep up this arrogance and I'll send you a chocolate trifle with a compulsion charm on it." She looked him over. "Not a very strong one, but just enough to give you that push to eat the entire thing."

His eyes went wide at her words.

"In one sitting."

Meanwhile back over at the Chrysler, Sherlock slid into the car and shut the door. He looked over to see a man with black raven's wing hair that could use a washing, black stony eyes, sallow skin, a large nose, and dressed all in a custom tailored all black suit. The man pulled out a vial and handed it over to him.

"Drink it," the man told him, his voice a ragged purr.

He popped the cork, sniffing at the contents before downing the entire thing. Sherlock winced at the flavor, but his throat felt better immediately.

"To whom do I owe my thanks?" he inquired, attempting to palm the vial.

The other man grinned and leaned forward, taking it and the cork from Sherlock. "My name is Severus Snape. I consider Miss Granger to be my ward."

Sherlock thought this over. "Are you warning me off?"

That had Severus laughing. "Oh on the contrary, dear boy. Consider me your cheering section."

Sherlock nodded to this and made to open the door when he said what he had to next.

"But hurt her, Mr. Holmes, and they will never find your body."

Sherlock just watched him for a time before saying, "I could make you a shampoo that works better than yours."

Severus's eyes went narrow at those words.

"It would more than likely improve your personality as well."

They both left the cars at the same time and the vehicles left in tandem.

Hermione went over to Sherlock, saying, "The British Government doesn't like me."

"Your adoptive father doesn't like me," he said.

"I'm okay with this outcome," she told him.

To which he nodded. "Me as well."

They both ended up smiling as they walked over to where John had a taxi waiting for them to take them home.

…

They walked into the flat wearily. Hermione went into her own kitchen, telling them that she would be making coffee if they were interested. The men went to their own flat and soon enough Hermione was back with them with a French press coffee maker and three mugs in hand.

"It would seem Severus took it upon himself to have my window and my door fixed already," she murmured to Sherlock, who only grunted in acknowledgement of what she said. "Care for some coffee, John?"

"No thank you," John said on a yawn. "It's back to bed for me. And if either of you two had sense, you'd be going back to bed too."

"Sleep well. Thank goodness one of us can," Hermione said, as she set down the coffee press and cups on the kitchen table.

He nodded tiredly and left the two of them to do whatever it was they were going to do.

"So what did Mr. Snape say about our assailants?" he asked her.

She gave him the names he gave her as well as their records that he knew of.

"My brother had much the same to say," he muttered. "But he did have one interesting addition to that." He looked over to her. "Said that Lawson, the man that John shot and is currently in police custody at the hospital, worked for the very same construction company that built and maintains the Tripoli Italian Bakery building."

She smiled as she poured the coffee, murmuring, "You have a link."

"That I do," he said. "No coffee for me."

Her smile broadened all the more. "Excellent." Sitting back, she sipped on it before asking, "What are you going to do now?"

"I need to find the connection between them all. Just pointing to the court house isn't enough. It's there, but how…"

Hermione blinked at him, as she could almost see the theories flashing through the super computer that was his brain. Then he exclaimed, "He or she works at the courts!"

Hermione frowned. "The courts?"

"It makes perfect sense! Don't tell me you don't see that?!"

"Oh, I see it," she said. "But Sherlock, what about Lawson?"

"What about him?"

"If what you say is correct and the mystery person that employed them found out that Lawson was captured in the attempt to kill you…"

He jumped to his feet only to sit down hard a second later. "He's more than likely already dead."

She nodded and replied, "You best call Lestrade."

Sure enough, Lawson had died while in custody. He had been found hanging and it was called a suicide by the investigator who caught the case. He hung up the mobile, glaring at the phone in his hand.

"I know," she muttered, drinking her coffee next to him. "I feel the same way. I wish we could slam down receivers once again. There's just something satisfying about doing such after an aggravating conversation."

He let out a small huff of laughter, but said nothing as his head fell back and soon he found himself staring at the ceiling.

"I have a riddle for you," Hermione said.

He lifted his head, looking to her waiting.

"Who travels between civil and criminal courts, has contact and influence with prisoners, has access to case files and has the capacity to murder without qualm?"

"Our murderer," he muttered.

"Exactly," she sighed. "Now who is he or she?"

An idea lit his eyes. "Or they."

"Not one?" she frowned as she thought it over. "Just how many are we speaking of?"

"It would take at least two individuals," he said. "Travels between different courts, has contact and influence over prisoners, and would also have access to the case files—a barrister and a bailiff."

"And the killer?" Hermione inquired.

"That's the easiest—both of them together."

"But why?" she asked. "They have to have their reasons."

"Certainly they do," he replied, taking the coffee from her and taking a sip of it. "The only thing I know concretely is that they think themselves smarter than the Yard, not to mention me! The Yard I understand, but _me?!_"

"Most would have picked up on the pattern after the second killing," Hermione said, taking back her coffee. "True, it would have taken a week or so, but they would have gotten hold of the right side of the matter I'm sure."

"Try a month," he muttered, as he watched her finish off her coffee. "I wanted more."

"What now?" she asked him, as she fetched him a fresh cup and sat back down next to him.

"Now we look closely at whom the courts are employing."

**TBC…**

**…**

**There you go! Another chapter hopping down the bunny trail, going out to you. Hope you like it. Thanks and have a rocking good day!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Read! Do the Macarena! Have a good laugh over it! Enjoy! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty**

By the time John got up, it was nearing eight in the morning and both Hermione and Sherlock were on their laptops on opposite sides of Sherlock's sitting room. When Hermione saw that John was awake, she looked relieved as she had news to relate to Holmes.

"I found the lawyer for Lawson and Turner—yes, it's the same man, but there's no connections between him and the victims. Should I check for one in his law firm?"

"That goes without saying!" he called back. "John!" He jumped up and went over to him. "I need for you to get onto your laptop and check this list of names." He handed the list to him. "Crosscheck them against these cases…" He handed them over to him. "We need to find names in connection with both of our victims. You're checking bailiffs, Hermione is checking for barristers."

"And what will you be doing?" John asked him, looking at the names on the list.

"I'll be checking judges and clerks just in case Hermione's theory is wrong…"

"Oi!" came from Hermione. "It's your theory. If it had been mine, I'd be the first one saying so."

He grinned, but said nothing as he went back to work on his own computer. It was in the middle of this work that Hermione's mobile rang.

"What?" she answered, as she kept working.

"Whatever happened to manners, I ask you?" came from Ginny teasingly.

"Hello Gin," she said, as she kept typing. "What's up?"

"Mum wanted me to invite you over to the Burrow for a brunch," she told her. "Harry and I have some news…"

"You're been pregnant again and have been for two months," she said, as she kept working. "I think it's another boy."

"Hermione!" Ginny's yell of indignation had her dropping the phone and rubbing her ear.

Grabbing up the phone, she snapped, "Ginny! I'd like to keep my hearing, thank you very much!"

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "But how did you know?"

"The last time I saw you, your hips were beginning to adjust and your pelvic floor was…"

"You know what? Never mind. You know and that's good enough for me," Ginny told her. "So can you come over?"

"Sorry, but I can't," she murmured. "Busy here."

"And where is that?" Ginny asked with false sweetness.

"On the corner of None Of and Your Business." She spotted a something that might mean a connection and said, "I got to go. Give everyone my best." And she hung up on her. "Sherlock! Mark Greenway was their lawyer, but his law firm was connected with both of the victims. But get this, they were fired before the cases came to trial. And the same lawyer was dismissed both times."

"Name?" he called out.

"Kirk Goodall."

"There's an Eric Goodall on my list," John announced. "And he works as a bailiff. But according to this, he isn't appointed a courtroom."

"Meaning he would work wherever they would have the need of him," Sherlock said, sounding joyful. "You know what this means?"

"We found our killers?" Hermione asked.

"Perhaps," he said, going over to her. "But I wasn't referring to that. I meant that you get some time off."

"Really?" She stood up, looking into his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Go see your friends." Those words had John completely floored.

"Thank you!" She went to tiptoe, kissed his cheek and rushed out the door and down to her flat.

Sherlock was blushing when he caught John staring at him flabbergasted. "What?"

"Uh…" he started, only to shake it off and muttered, "Nothing. Does this mean you want me to help out today?"

"If you have nothing else to do?" he asked.

"No, nothing of import," he said casually. "What are we going to be doing?"

"We're going to be seeing a firm about a solicitor." He found Hermione's mobile phone. "I best get this to her. We need her to have it close by to her in case we need to contact her."

"Don't you mean in case _you_ need to contact her?"

This only had Sherlock rolling his eyes as he went down the stairs. But when he didn't find her in the sitting room or kitchen, he rushed over to the bedroom half expecting her not to be there at all. Instead, she was sprawled haphazardly across her bed sound asleep. He went over and moved her legs onto the bed, covering her up with her duvet. Setting her phone next to her on her nightstand, he turned and left—never noticing how Hermione had opened her eyes to watch him leave soundlessly or how she went back to sleep with a small smile on her face.

…

Two hours later Hermione was awoken by her phone, she reached out and fumbled with it bringing it to her ear.

"Hello?" she breathed.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, this is she," she murmured, rubbing her eyes as she tried to wake up. "Who is this?"

"It's me! Neville," he said, laughing. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Don't worry about it," she told him. "How are you?"

"Great," he told her. "Hagrid asked me to call you to let you know that your dog is fine."

"That's wonderful," she said, sitting up. "Was he able to find out anything about the dog?"

"Plenty," he told her. "It's a boy, but you knew that."

"Right," she replied. "And?"

"He's an Irish Wolfhound…"

The full weight of what her friend had said hit her like a ton of bricks. "Oh dear Merlin, that dog's not full grown!"

Sounding puzzled, Neville asked, "How did you know that?"

"Irish Wolfhounds are one of the biggest muggle breeds on earth," she told him, rubbing her face with her hand as she tried as she might to think of what she was going to do. "Did he say how old he was?"

"About seven months old," he answered. "He wasn't sure, as he isn't as familiar with non-magical breeds. I think it's because they aren't as deadly."

Both of them got a chuckle out of that one.

"Did he say when I can get him?"

"Any day you're able," he said.

"I don't know when I can go over," she told him. "It's been rather hectic over here. I'll give you a ring on your mobile the moment I know I can rush over to pick him up."

"That'll be good," he told her. "I best be off. Hannah is taking me to a magical horticulture show, as a congratulatory gift for getting the book I wrote being published."

"Oh Neville! That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

"Thank you," he said, sounding as if he were lowering his head in embarrassed pride.

They said their goodbyes and Hermione went to work on a quick meal. After eating her sandwich, she took a shower. It was while she was showering that her phone rang. Annoyed, she ignored it. She deserved a little me time and if a quick shower was it, so be it.

Hermione got out of the shower and was pulling on a robe when she saw Sherlock waiting in her bedroom, reclining on her bed.

"It's about time," he said to her, getting up to his feet. "They found another body."

"And how do they know it's connected to your case?"

"We're in a hurry, woman," he told her sternly. "John is already over there waiting for us."

She went over to her closet grabbing clothing and rushing back to the bathroom, calling behind her, "But you still haven't told me how it's connected."

"Trust me, seeing is most definitely believing."

**TBC…**

**…**

**And there goes another chapter for the world at large to explore. Thank you for all of your support and taking time out of your day to read my little story. It really does mean a lot to me. Have a bountiful day!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Bonus Chapter! Just because and that's enough for me!**

**Please read, enjoy, jump around in a bounce house, and have fun! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-one**

The car was sitting on the road in front of Prince Albert Hall. She didn't know the make, but presumed it was one of the more expensive models as it did have that look about it. Unfortunately, it also had the look of someone attempting to tell the world that they had loads of money as well, as the hubcaps alone had enough gold filigree to bank a small nation. And as she made her way closer to the car, two more things became apparent. One was the pungent odor of decay that seemed to waft off of the car in waves. And two, the car was filled with…something.

She got closer still and she saw it. Within the confines of the car was cement? No, she thought, that can't be. She moved over so that she could look into the front windscreen. It was like cement, as it must have been viscous like it when it first started out. But it didn't look like it, not really. But then she saw it. A part of Queen Elizabeth's face wasn't destroyed in the mashing process. And once she saw that one, she saw more.

"Money?" she breathed.

"Ah, it is lovely to know that my intern is far more observant than some others I know," Sherlock said from behind her. Hermione went over to the stepladder that was alongside of the car, climbing it and looked into the sun roof.

"How many do you figure must be in the passenger section of the car, Miss Granger?" came from Sherlock.

She was leaning closer, as she muttered, "Two."

"Two? Where did you get that number from?" Anderson demanded.

"There's hair here," she pointed out to the sunroof. "They tried to get out, but something happened that prevented him from doing so." She looked to Anderson. "And I am surmising that it is a 'he' as no woman I know wears a toupee." She squinted as she took an even closer look. "And if they were to wear a wig of any sort, it wouldn't be of that poor a quality unless they really didn't care or couldn't afford better." She got down from the ladder and pointed to the front windscreen. "The driver's forehead is pressed against the glass just left of the steering wheel area." She looked over to Holmes. "There's another body in the boot, isn't there?"

"Did he tell you so he wouldn't look the fool?"

Hermione turned slowly to Anderson, her eye brow arching. Anderson seemed to cave in on himself, as Hermione speared him with her hard brown eyes.

"No, he did not," she said, her voice venomous. "The two bodies within the car are in as close to an air tight environment as one can get. They are in what amounts to hardened paper Mache if you will. Meaning that rather disgusting odor of death wouldn't be perfuming the air quite so liberally if they were the only bodies here. That leaves the boot." She held her hand up. "I'm about five seconds away from losing my stomach in a very revolting fashion. And as you are getting on my last nerve, I will aim for you…" Anderson ran away as far as Lestrade, who was just standing there shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

She looked over to Sherlock, who was grinning happily.

"Are you really that sick?" John asked her.

"My stomach is a riotous mess, make no mistake about that. But I'm nowhere near losing its contents," she assured the doctor.

"Pity," Sherlock said. "I would have liked to have seen that."

They walked over to the boot where a uniformed officer opened it. She was covering her face with her scarf and looked at the body.

"That's the man that attacked me," she breathed.

John looked in on the body and muttered, "That man's 1.98 meters tall! Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said, turning away from the body. "I'm sure. The man has bruising across his face from my extendable baton. His nose is broken from that. His spine was injured as well. This was aggravated from his swift escape out my window, I have no doubt."

"But…" John started only to have Sherlock cut him off.

"I'll explain it to you later," he told him. "But I'm positive she is correct in her conclusion that this is the same man that attacked her last night."

He looked over to her, staring absently over to the golden statue of Prince Albert across the way. He went over to her, lifting her face up towards his own.

"You are not responsible for that man's death," he said, his voice low and held the note of authority in its depths. "You protected yourself and there's nothing wrong with that."

"But if I had detained him, made sure he didn't get away…"

"He would have been killed like the other man and well you know it," he told her. "Enough. Just stop it now."

She nodded. "I know that logically everything you say is true."

"But?"

"It doesn't stop the questions of what I could have done differently to change this outcome."

He sighed as his hand fell to his side once again and muttered, "There wasn't a thing you could have done differently, Hermione. They were dead men walking when they signed up for this." She looked to him startled. "Our killers don't leave loose ends. And they were that in spades."

They were both silent for a time before she worried her lower lip and said, "I need a good Irish name."

"What for?" John asked as he joined them.

"Irish…" Sherlock breathed before he exclaimed, "My God, the dog's an Irish Wolfhound? And a pup at that?!"

"I figure he's going to be the size of a small horse," she muttered.

"You are going to have to find a proper home for that beast," he told her. "And that is that!"

"But Sherlock, he's so cute!" Hermione told him, her voice on the fine edge of nearly whining.

"I don't care if he's the cutest dog on the planet! He can't live in our building and that's final."

She frowned and suggested, "What if we toss a coin to decide? Heads I win, tails you lose."

That had John snickering even as Sherlock gave her a flat look. "Very funny. I think not."

"Why not? After all, far more important things have been decided on the flip of a coin, have they not?" She pulled out a pound coin, handing it over to him. "I'll even let you flip it."

His eyes narrowed. "Two times out of three?"

"That's acceptable," she said, as he looked over the coin. "I assure you that is a coin of the English Realm."

He handed it over to John, who looked it over in turn. "It's an average pound sterling coin." He flipped it a few times and it tossed about as any pound coin would. He handed it back to Sherlock.

"Very well," Sherlock said. "I'll take heads."

"As you wish," she murmured. "Toss away."

**TBC…**

**…**

**Another chapter has sang its swan song. Any questions? Comments? Please review. Thank you and have a winsome day.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Just letting you know that I might have done a bit of venting in this. You'll know it when you see it.**

**Read! Enjoy! Do your best Lady Gaga impression! Have a good laugh! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-two**

"You're not naming him Seamus."

These were Sherlock's first words in hours to Hermione. The first time the coin had come up tails, he had thought nothing of it. But the odds of the coin coming up tails every single time he had tossed it was impossible and he had said as much. He protested, handed the coin to John and made him flip the coin as well. Only this time it came up heads one of the three times he had done as Sherlock had ordered.

_"__This is a trick coin!" he had protested._

_ "__I assure you that it's not," Hermione murmured, now growing bored of his protestations of foul play. "It's an English one pound sterling, just as advertised. And if the Realm did make trick coins, I would have to think they would make them for more than a pound."_

_ "__Sherlock, lose with grace," John told him. "She won! Get over it." He looked at his watch. "I must be off. Mary wants me to look at some different table settings for the reception." He looked at both of them and finally said, "Yeah, this now is making me look forward to the dull task all the more. Hard to imagine, as I thought only a meeting with a red hot poker would have been more entertaining."_

From that moment until he said those words while they were back at Baker Street, he had been going about the flat like a sulking child. Hermione was tempted to tell him as much, but that would have only made him worse she reasoned.

"Not that I wanted to name him that, but why don't you want to do so?" she asked him, as she was scribbling into her note pad.

"I refuse to have an Irish wolfhound within my presence with such a stereotypical name!" he declared. "That means no to Liam, Ian, and Patrick as well."

She looked up to him, saying, "Very well, but he doesn't look like a Liam, Ian, or Patrick now does he?"

"Using that same theory, I shouldn't have been named Sherlock," he muttered. "I'm not exactly fair haired, am I?"

"I did wonder about that," she murmured. "That and if the others in school came up with as horrid of nicknames, as they did for me."

"Shirley," he muttered. "And what's worse is that they didn't come up with it on their own." And this last part he growled, "My brother told them."

"Ouch, and I thought 'Mione was bad," she breathed.

"It is bad, but more due to the fact that it showed a lack of imagination than anything else," he murmured.

"I thought so as well," she admitted. "At least they didn't call me something like Mia." Hermione shuddered. "It's so…cute."

That had him laughing. "So you don't think yourself as cute?"

"No, far from it," she told him. "The cute girls, the girls that always took hours with their hair and makeup, who thought more of their outfits than their studies, and didn't think themselves worthy unless they had a boyfriend upon which to cling to like a limpet—they and I never got on well. I was their contrast. And because I was secure in myself and how I presented myself to others, this made them dislike me all the more for it."

She looked up from her own scribbling to Sherlock, who had stopped and was watching her with a focus that would have had others squirming. "So no, I am not cute in the least." The corner of her mouth tilted up slightly. "If I start giggling and twisting my hair with my finger as I stare adoringly at you, and if we're not attempting a break in or putting up a false front for an undercover operation, I must have your promise to take me to a mental hospital."

He smiled to this, but said nothing as he went over to her and took the notebook out of her hand. Looking over her notes, he saw that she was organizing her thoughts on paper about the murders. But the shorthand was so obscure as to nearly be a code.

"Explain this to me," he said, pointing out one of the things he didn't comprehend.

"Those are runes spelling out drunk," she told him.

His finger moved to the next. "And this?"

"Runes again, but this time spelling out obese."

"And this one, why just one for this last one?"

"That single one means wealth," she murmured.

"Why use runes?"

Smiling she said, "I'd hate to think I attained all of that education and not put it to use."

Before she knew what he was about, he had moved so that he was pinning her bodily to the lounge she was sitting on with his mouth pressing to her ear.

"How do you vanish?" he purred into her ear, making her want to melt into a gooey mess of Hermione on the floor. "Tell me."

Hermione's shaking hand came up, cupping his face as she breathed, "I've been without a man being this close to me for years." Those words made him go very still. "I've been good at staying away from men sexually." She shuddered, as he felt her thumb caress his cheek and jaw. "It's a task I will ultimately fail at, if for no other reason than the crudeness of biology and sex being a primary need." He turned his face towards hers to see her squeezing her eyes shut. "How you must think me a fool to see me crumble and bow to such a feeble need." Her amber eyes opened and she looked into his grey-blue orbs, as she breathed, "If I could, I would tell you everything I could and more…"

"What's stopping you?" he demanded.

"Oh Sherlock," she said hoarsely. "Surely you know the answer…"

"Tell me," his demand cut her off.

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" Moving just so, she kissed his lips tenderly and managed to slip away from him, taking her notebook as she went.

Sherlock stayed there for a time without moving. But once he did, it was with violence and speed. Before he knew what he was about he had thrown several of the empty tea cups that had been littering the area around him. And when he had finished, he was standing there in the middle of the room, panting and feeling no better for the outburst. Gathering his wits, he took a few deep, calming breaths. Once done, he turned and went back to work on the case at hand.

**TBC…**

**…**

**And that's another chapter tossed out to you all. Thank you for all of your support. Please feel free to review. I like to hear what you have to say. Thanks again and have a delicious day.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**At this time I would like to point out that I personally have no issues with Ryan Air or Fair Isle. Ryan Air was chosen through the inny-meany-minni-moe method of selection between all the air travel providers in Europe. And Fair Isle was just unlucky enough to have a very low population and be a part of the British Isles—both of these things being criteria for picking it for the purposes of this story. I mean no insult by choosing either of these groups. It was just their (Fair Isle's) luck to also have a knitting technique named after the island as well. I apologize if this in any way insults. That wasn't the intention. Comedy, my friends, is a cruel bitch.**

**Read! Enjoy! Watch futbol! Cheer your team to victory! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-three**

Hermione left the flat alone. Walking as she was, she needed to feel some air fill her lungs and it not be filled with the stench of death. Almost immediately she knew she was being followed. She stopped by a small coffee shop, buying a double espresso. Next Hermione went into a bookstore, looking through what they had slowly. Afterwards, she caught a taxi back over to the flat and went in after paying. Once inside, she went over to sit across from Sherlock.

"By my count I had no fewer than five people following me during my mundane task of fetching myself a coffee and the pleasure of looking through books," she told him, causing him to lift his head slightly from where it was resting against his finger tips. "Two of the men, I'm certain Severus placed on me as security. Your brother more than likely followed me via CCTV. Three of them were members of your homeless network that up until now I have only heard rumors of. They're good, by the way."

"I know."

"But pray tell, why have them follow me?"

It was clear that he was avoiding looking into her eyes, as he answered, "I was concerned for your safety."

Hermione nodded to this, murmuring, "Yes, but because of what?" When he didn't say anything, she went on with, "I will respect your privacy. You've more than earned it. But you don't do anything without reason. True, some of what has you putting tails on me is curiosity, but there's something more as well. Something that, dare I say it, which has you scared for me." She stood up. "I never did ask you what you found out about the lawyer."

"Kirk Goodall was dismissed from the law firm without reference," he told her, turning to face her. "Due in part to being fired from four different cases within three months' time."

"For what reason was he fired?"

"Excellent question!" He got to his feet and went over to her. "It would seem our barrister thought none of the clients were in the right or innocent and said as much when he told them to either drop the lawsuits or plead guilty."

"That's a quick way to lose a client," she muttered.

"My thoughts exactly," he said.

"So Horus Michaels was arrested for a drunk and disorderly," she murmured, as she began to pace. "And his barrister told him to plead guilty. Langston Pritchard wants to sue Ryan Air…" She frowned. "For what reason?"

"They charged him for two seats when he boarded the plane," he said. "Considering how small the seats on those flights are and seeing as Ryan Air would charge for the very air on the plane if they could get away with it, I'm shocked they didn't charge him for three."

"Why would an ostentatious man who likes flaunting his wealth hire a firm of solicitors who are usually hired by what would be considered to be the middle to lower classes?" Hermione inquired.

"Mr. Roland Smyth," he told her the third victim's name. "Liked showing his wealth off, as we both witnessed when we looked over the tomb that his car had become, but apparently from what Lestrade told me his secretary said the man was notoriously tight with his pocket book in such matters as hiring a lawyer and, from what we both saw, his toupee. Apparently, he wanted to sue his former partner for failure to pay off the money he loaned him at the start of one of their projects."

"How much money did he want to sue for?" Hermione inquired.

He leaned in close and told her, "Guess."

She frowned. "It must either be a pittance or a grand sum. But seeing as you are looking as you are, I'd go with a very small amount." Hermione hummed. "Fifty quid?"

He shook his head no. "Five."

Shock lit her face. "Just filing the paperwork alone through the courts would cost more than that."

"And thus it goes back to the cheap nature of the man," he murmured. "The solicitor that took over the case said that it was about the principle of the matter."

She snorted at that and said, "The principle of it being his client wanted to show the man he was suing who was correct—and that of course was himself."

"Exactly," he said, watching her as she went over to the lounge and sit down. "I found out what the fourth case was concerning. It was about a noise complaint and his client was Fredric Garrard."

Hermione frowned. "I know that name. Why do I know that name?"

"I'm told that some think of him as something of a world class piano player," he told her dryly. "I was thus informed that he was big over on Fair Isle."

"Of course he is," she said wryly. "The only other entertainment they have is knitting, right?" That gained her a loud bark of laughter even as she said mostly to herself, "But where did I hear his name before and why is it so damn important now?"

Before she knew what was happening, she heard violin playing. The playing had her looking over to Sherlock, who was in the middle of the room. His eyes were closed as he played, every note made her feel as if she were melting. Sighing she closed her eyes and listened to the playing, as she allowed the memories to flow like water through her mind. Easing from one moment to the next with ease.

But then it happened. Five weeks previously she was just back from another assignment when Ginny said that she had tickets to see a muggle piano player.

_"__I know how much you love piano playing," Ginny said, grinning. "This could be your birthday gift!"_

_Smiling, she tried to be cooperative with her friend. But in truth she would never know if she was going to be in town or not at any given moment. But she had wanted to be able to say that she would be there for it._

_ "__Okay," she said with a grin. "Date and time?"_

_ "__Oh poo! Who cares what time it is?" she asked her. "The boys will be in school and Mum will be babysitting Lilly!"_

_ "__It is so we can go get something to drink at the nearby pub before we arrive to see the concert, of course!" she told her. "It'll be fun!"_

_ "__You had me at drink," Ginny admitted, laughing. "He's name is Fredric Garrard and he's supposed to be a big deal."_

_ "__Where? Because let me tell you, I've never heard of the man."_

_Ginny rolled her eyes and said, "He's supposed to have a big following over on Fair Isle."_

_ "__Gin, I wouldn't take that as being a big deal," she told her. "The population on that island according to Wikipedia was only 68 the last time I checked."_

_ "__Oh? How disappointing," she sighed. "I can't very well get my money back, as the ticket seller told me no refunds."_

_ "__Too bad," Hermione murmured. "When is it?"_

_ "__Exactly on your birthday. And if you end up having one of your jobs, then I'll take Harry. He's always going on about how we have to have more culture in our lives…"_

Hermione's eyes popped open, as she asked, "What day is it today?"

"The 19th of September," he replied, looking over to her to find that she was looking very worried. "Why?"

Getting up from where she was sitting, she asked, "How would someone kill a man with sound?"

"With high enough decibels…" His eyes went wide. "He has a concert tonight?"

"Yes," she told him, rushing to grab her coat to pull her cell out of the pocket. "And I have to stop my two friends from going to it."

**TBC…**

**…**

**And there you have it, another chapter is going off to the Great Spirit in the sky, otherwise known in this case as the Internet. Thank you so much! Hope you all are having a cool day.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Bonus Chapter! Why? 'Cuz I says so.**

**Read! Enjoy! Jump to a conclusion as a form of exercise! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-four**

Hermione rang Ginny, but she didn't answer. Next she tried Harry. It took five times, but he finally answered it.

"Happy birthday!" came the cheerful greeting on the other end.

"Harry, are you and Ginny still planning on going to that piano concert tonight?" she asked without preamble.

He must have pulled his phone to his ear, as he now sounded closer, as he answered, "Yes, seeing as you're working. Why?"

"You can't go," she told him, looking over to see Sherlock was texting someone—but she hadn't a clue as to whom it might be. "I can't explain it right now, but I promise the moment that I can that I will."

"Okay," he said. "Do you need back up?"

"Not this time," she told him. "But thanks for that and the well wishes."

He chuckled. "Anything for you, Hermione. You know that. Call if you change your mind about needing help."

Hermione hung up the phone. "Okay, that's taken care of. So what now?"

"We're meeting Lestrade over at Kirk Goodall's home," he told her. "Seems that there's a body there in the study."

She stopped and looked at him as she put on her jacket. "Is it him?"

"They can't do a visual identification on the man and they were waiting for a fingerprint scan to yield results when I told him we were on our way over," he told her.

"Why can't they do a visual I.D.?" she asked him, just as a cab pulled up to them.

"The Yard is finding it a difficult thing to do, as it would seem the victim is missing his face."

…

They had arrived to the house in Camden to find John Watson there waiting for them to arrive. Hermione grinned to him, as she made her way into the house. When she went in she found the location of the body nearly straight off. Sitting in one of the guest chairs in a small neatly appointed home office, he was sitting slumped off to one side. The foul miasma of death hit her and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

"You said he was missing his face," Hermione said when she was finally able to speak, turning away from the body and swallowing thickly. "You didn't say he was decapitated."

"I don't see why you're having difficulty looking at the body," John Watson said to her. "Or any of the bodies for that matter. It isn't like you haven't looked at the bits and pieces of one. And been very curious about them, I might add."

"True," she said, turning to look at the headless corpse. "But it would seem that my brain and my stomach are at great odds over that issue." She turned back away, complaining, "Damn weak stomach."

"It's the smell," Sherlock muttered. "The sight she can deal with, but the smells of death and decay they seem to get her every time." He looked over to her, asking, "Assessment?"

"It's the bailiff," she answered.

"Wait one damn minute," came from Anderson. "I get that he could figure it out, but where do you get that answer?"

"His hands are work roughened," she said. "The suit is too small. That isn't to say it's too short, but too small. Our victim has muscles that the man that suit was originally made for doesn't have. Ergo, he's the bailiff."

"But that doesn't mean that it has to be the bailiff," Anderson sniped.

She studied Anderson a moment before turning to Holmes. "He grew far too accustomed to being the smartest person in the room in university."

"He must have been surrounded by fools," Holmes said waspishly. "Anderson, Kirk Goodall wanted people, namely you and the Yard, to believe that the man here was him. Not only does the suit he's wearing and the worker's hands contradict that, but the fact that he's sitting in the guest chair should have told you as much as well. What man sits in the guest chair in his own office? They'd stay standing first." He spun to face him. "Kirk Goodall needed a man of his approximate height and weight. There was nothing to be done about the fact that his brother had more muscle than he did. He made due."

"But the way you're talking about it so casually! If you're correct, and when aren't you? That was his brother!" Anderson snapped.

"Yes, but then whole families have been slaughtered by close family members for no reason at all," Hermione murmured. "But that's not the point."

"Then pray tell, what is the point?" Anderson demanded.

"I'm not a professor. You're going to have to learn that on your own." Hermione walked over so that she was standing behind the body. "Holmes?"

Sherlock went over and looked down at the carpeting, seeing what she was looking at. "Well spotted." He looked over to Anderson. "He has new help and this one uses a sword."

She pointed to the impressions in the carpeting where much of the blood had settled to John. "He took a stance like a batter in a cricket match and swung. I doubt he has much skill with a sword outside of what he's seen in the cinema."

Sherlock nodded to this. "True, but he did practice first with melons." He went over to the wall behind the desk, took up a pair of gloves from his pocket and plucked something from the wall. He walked back over and showed them what he had found.

"A melon seed?" John whispered.

"Sloppy," Hermione muttered. "What ever happened to cleaning one's weapons properly?"

"Ignorance and novelty of it all, I'm sure," Sherlock told her to which she nodded.

"So what now?" John asked of them.

"I thought that would be self-evident," Sherlock said, walking briskly towards the front door.

"To whom?" called John walking quickly in his wake.

Hermione only shook her head at their rudeness, even as she was waving goodbye to those there in the house and joined them outside in time for Sherlock to text for a cab.

"Will one of you please tell me where we're going and what we're about to do?" John demanded.

"Hermione," Sherlock snapped.

John looked over to her, clearly needing an answer.

"We're going to the Chelsea Theatre to stop the further murder of musical culture within the United Kingdom." She looked at Holmes, who was watching her with a smirk. "And we'll catch a killer too, I'm sure."

**TBC…**

**…**

**Another chapter is declaring the battle won, but alas! This tale that is the war isn't finished yet! Thank you once more for reading. And I am sending you all positive vibes for a bravura day.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read, enjoy, meditate on how to be the fabulous individuals you all are and can be, and review.**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-five**

"So the killer is this man Kirk Goodall?" John asked as they were in the cab.

"Yes, he is," Sherlock answered. "We need a plan of attack to stop him."

"Don't forget his new minion," Hermione murmured.

"Minion?" John asked, puzzled that she would use such a word.

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "His cohort? Whatever the case, he's new henchman, if you will, is going to be here too."

"How do you figure that?" John inquired.

"Since when has a solicitor ever done all of his own dirty work?"

That had both of the men thinking and giving a reluctant nod.

When they finally arrived at the venue, there was a small crowd there, but nothing significant.

"Thank goodness it's no one anyone has actually heard of or we would have been in trouble," John said, only to have Hermione punching his shoulder. "Oi! What was that for?"

"If you jinxed us by saying that, I'll hit you harder. Just see if I don't," she told him.

He looked over to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and said, "There's no such…"

The bus of about fifteen people newly arrived from Fair Isle were all chattering away, as they made their way over to the box office. This was followed by a school bus of fifty secondary school students. And yet another bus this time with twenty-five senior citizens out for a night of music.

Hermione hit John again, as she said she would, harder than before on in the very same spot. Hermione didn't say a thing, but it was very clear that she wasn't happy about what had just occurred.

"We need to find a way into the theatre," John stated, rubbing his arm as he said so.

"That's the easy part," Sherlock said, moving them over to the left side of the building where there was an entrance into backstage area.

Standing there, playing around with a sword was a boy no older than twenty. His stance was all wrong, meaning he left himself completely unprotected while he was making like a grand sword fighting master. John and Sherlock were bickering back and forth as to how to deal with him. Having had enough Hermione, pulled out both of her extendable titanium batons and strolled over to where he was. In three quick movements, she had them both extended, blocking a blow from the sword with one baton and knocking him out cold with the other.

He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. She retracted both of her batons, put them away before taking up the sword with reverence.

"This is a beauty," she said, admiring the Japanese sword lying prone across her palms. "Pity it was in the hands of such a buffoon." Hermione looked over to see a bug eyed John and Sherlock who was only smiling. "Want to examine the sword?"

Sherlock went over to Hermione and she lay the sword into his hands. "I trust you know how to handle this weapon?"

"But of course," he purred.

"Lovely workmanship, isn't it?" she murmured, her voice husky as they looked at what he was now holding.

John came over and looked at the both of them. Given how they were behaving one would have thought that they were in the middle of foreplay rather than the examination of a bladed weapon.

He cleared his throat, getting their attention. "Shouldn't we be going inside now?"

Sighing heavily she muttered, "We must continue this at a time when we don't have a murder to stop."

"Agreed," he said. "John, help me secure the boy. Hermione…" He looked from the door to her. "Pick the lock."

He went over to deal with the young man with John, tying him up as Hermione just stood there waiting. When they were finished, they came back over and she opened the door.

"It wasn't locked," she said to no one in particular as they had already rushed into the theatre. Absently Hermione wondered if this was what Luna felt like—the only person that strolled in a world that couldn't seem to stop long enough to even take a breath.

"I need to see the stage area," Sherlock said, rushing ahead of both of them. "John, see what you can do to delay the piano player."

Hermione looked at her watch. "The show is due to start in five minutes, Sherlock."

"Damn," he muttered. "John, come with me to the stage area. Hermione, you make certain our piano player is incapacitated in his dressing room."

"What's he look like?" she asked.

"Two meters tall, thinning brown straight hair, blue eyes, and a complexion like oatmeal," Sherlock told her. "Rather a plain looking man."

Hermione narrowed her eyes and looked over to where the detective was, just as John inquired, "Where and when did you get a chance to see a picture of him?"

"John, he's looking at him," she told him. "It must be him, as he's the only one back here wearing a tux."

John looked over and muttered a curse. "What's he already doing out of his dressing room?"

Hermione was the one to look around. "Uh, this is his dressing room." She pointed to about five meters away where a mirror was, surrounded by flowers.

"Well, go get to work, woman. We don't have all day!" And Sherlock charged away with John on his heels.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione went over to the man just in time to hear him in the middle of his panic attack.

"My god, more people?!" he nearly exclaimed.

She looked out front and saw no more than about ninety people there. Looking back over to the piano player, he looked about ready to hyperventilate. Not wanting to waste time, she went with the best plan. She hit him with a wandless fainting charm the twins invented that tended to last about half an hour. Unfortunately, much like a large tree being cut down in the forest, he could take down others in his path. In this case, that was Hermione.

This was unfortunate as it had her petite form pinned under 95 kilos of muscle with little by way of getting him the hell off of her. She couldn't find the leverage to move him. And what was worse, none of the people working there were helping either. If anything, they thought it a great joke. And given the angle she was at (face down to the floorboards, as she was turning to get away when he toppled her much faster than she ever thought possible), she couldn't put a feather light charm on him. As it was, she was using her hands on the flooring to keep him from crushing all the air out of her lungs.

Fed up, she did the only thing left to her to do.

"_SHERLOCK!_"

**TBC…**

**…**

**Another chapter has been zapped out to you! Yes, I'm evil leaving you at a cliffhanger like that. But that's just the way I roll. Sorry. Well, not really (Giggles). Hope you all have a remarkable day.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Read! Enjoy! Learn something new! Have fun doing it! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-six**

The detective was running her way before she had even finished screaming his name. He went over rolling the man off of her and got her to her feet by lifting her up under her arms.

"What happened?" he asked her.

"He was having a panic attack when I got to him," she said, rubbing her ribs where he had forced her to meet the floor when he had used her as a fall mattress. "The man fainted from stage fright."

"Are you okay?" John asked her, joining them.

"I will be," she muttered. "He doesn't look it, but that man is all muscle."

Sherlock looked over to John. "Let's get him over to a safer area. I could use that time to figure out what to do about the speakers."

Hermione frowned as she looked at the area Sherlock had been investigating when she had yelled for him, as they moved Fredric Garrard to a safer location within the backstage area.

When Sherlock and John came back, they found her looking at all the speakers in awe.

"The speakers…They're all pointed to the stage," she breathed. "Where's the power source?"

"Unknown," Sherlock muttered. "This building isn't wired for anything of that sort."

"Which means that there must be an external generator, correct?" she asked him.

"Definitely, but for something like this to do as the killer wishes it would have to be large," Sherlock said.

"About the size of a small lorry would do it?" Hermione asked him to which he nodded. "Did you see any outside? I know I didn't."

"A meal wagon," Sherlock muttered. "But it had only just opened for business. That was it."

"I didn't see anything either," John added. "We should find the wires, following them to the source."

The lights dimmed and brightened three times.

"Oh shitte," Hermione breathed. "The show. What are we going to do about the people who came here to see the fainting wonder?"

"There's only one thing to do for it," Sherlock told her, as he wrapped his arm over her shoulder and walked her over to the wing just off of the stage. "You're going to have to stall."

"What?! Are you mad? I'm not dressed for it!"

"Nonsense! You look…" He frowned as he looked down at her battered brown leather jacket, jeans, well-worn cream sweater, and scuffed up dark tan suede boots that had seen better days. "So okay, you're not dressed for it, but take heart! They're not here to see you."

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked him, now clearly digging in her heels.

"I don't know," he told her, now pushing her along. "Just keep them preoccupied."

"For how long?" she asked him.

"Until you don't have to," he replied and promptly pushed her out on the stage.

Hermione stumbled out, calling the attention of the crowd to her even as she was blushing with embarrassment. Shooting Sherlock a glare, she stood up straight. Tugging her jacket down, she rolled her head, and strode forward to be standing in front of the grand piano on the stage.

"Due to unforeseen events the concert you have come to see tonight will be starting late," she told them. There was some minor reaction within the crowd and she could have sworn she had seen two of the people in the audience exchanging money as if on a wager they had made. "But to keep you entertained in the meantime, I will be presenting you with one of the Granger Variations of Frère Jacques, Opus 3—the jazz interpretations. Enjoy."

…

The simple playing at the beginning slipped into complex jazz that was as smooth as glass and as calm as a still lake and had Sherlock freezing. He turned slowly towards the stage, watching her playing. Her hands moved lightly over the instrument, as if her fingers were dancing across the keys. And even with her facing away from him, he could tell that her eyes were closed as she was playing. What he wouldn't give to go up behind her and nuzzle her neck. To kiss that sensitive part of her nape where neck met shoulder, nipping it ever so gently…

He shook off the wayward thought, turned heel and went in search of the wires that would go from the speakers to the generator.

John went over to him, pointing to the wires he was able to find. They weren't going out of the building. No, that would be too simple, he thought, as he saw which way they were going—straight up to a large generator that was currently being worked on by none other than Kirk Goodall.

The short bespectacled man was looking frustrated, as it looked like he was hitting the generator with a lug wrench.

"We're in luck," Sherlock told his friend. "It would seem he was far too premature in killing his brother. And he didn't think to hire someone to do the dirty work in his stead as well. Which is a good thing for us, as clearly he doesn't know what he's doing." Looking around, wildly he found what he was looking for. He rushed over to the set of ropes, wrapping his arm around one of them. "Call Lestrade. He should already be on his way over, but one never knows."

"What are you going to be doing?" John asked.

"I'm going up!" And he pulled the pin holding the rope down. He shot up into the air, laughing like a loon all the way up.

…

The joyous laughter shooting up into the rafters of the staging area should have alerted Hermione that something was most assuredly going on. But no, something had caught her attention. Not much of an oddity, but enough of one to have held her attention for the shortest of times.

Snapping. It was a rhythmic counter-beat to her own playing, something she hadn't heard in ages and it had been to this very piece of music when she played it for the first time for an audience. An audience, she thought, of one. And when the music came to a close, a storm of snaps from a single person had her lifting her head and breathing that one name.

"Jamie." She looked to the audience, but he wasn't there.

A yell overhead had her looking up and had her swallowing a scream, as she saw Sherlock battling it out with a man who kept trying to start the generator.

"Oh my god," she breathed, as she managed to hold back her fear and stood up. Bowing to the applause that she hadn't heard up until that very moment. "Thank you. Thank you very much. Hopefully the show will start shortly."

With one last bow, she walked slowly until she reached the back stage area—where she ran looking for John. And if luck and her skill were on her side, they'd be able to get the two men down from where they were swinging about. Whether or not it would be in one piece that would be another story.

**TBC…**

**…**

**And another chapter has done its swan dive into the Internet. Thank you for coming along! We're getting very close to the end now. Review to let me know what you think. Thanks again and have a sweet day.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Read! Play with Legos! Enjoy being you! Review!**

**…**

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

John was trying to pull down the retractable ladder that would lead him to the catwalk halfway to where Sherlock was. To go any further up, it would take him above where the fighting was and thusly be of little use to what was going on. He nearly had it when Hermione ran straight up the wall grabbing the last rung and used her body weight to pull the ladder down. Even as it was coming down, she was going up it.

John, not wanting to be left behind, was quick to follow. Once to the catwalk, they had a better view of the fighting going on above them. It had been during their flight up to the midway point that Goodall had stopped attacking Sherlock and started going after the rope he was using instead—and in this, Goodall was winning.

"Damn," Hermione cursed and began looking for a rope that would get her over to the other side of the stage under where Holmes and the killer were fighting.

Finding the correct rope, she untied it and climbed over to the other side of the arm rail for where she was standing. Merlin, she thought, the things I do. Putting a silent, wandless sticking charm that would keep her on the rope and herself. She looked up just as Sherlock lost the fight. Timing it perfectly, she swung out and they caught each other. Which was a miracle unto itself, as she had her eyes shut and she had been screaming the entire time she had been swinging out to save him.

Once they latched onto each other, her screams stopped and she peeked out to find Sherlock's face centimeters away from hers. He saw the clear terror of being so far up in order to do what she had done to save him, but she had pushed beyond it. Something, he reasoned, she must have done many times in her life. Leaning down with his eyes closed, he pressed his lips to her forehead and left them there until they were to the catwalk where John was able to catch them.

"We're going to have to go above where he's at," Sherlock told them.

"The ladder can get us there," John told him.

"Not quickly enough," Holmes muttered.

Hermione, on the other hand, had pulled out a set of opera glasses from her inner jacket pocket. Looking up to the upper ropes in order to figure out just which one they would have to use to get up there, she saw something that had her grabbing Sherlock's arm. She held out the glasses to him and pointed to where she was looking. Frowning he looked up with the binoculars. She knew the moment he saw it when his breath caught in his chest.

"John," he said quietly. "Get yourself and Hermione out of here. Call Lestrade again. Tell him to double time it." He looked straight over to John. "There's a bomb up there."

"Sherlock, it's connected to the generator," Hermione told him. "Chances are the moment the generator is activated the bomb will blow."

"I know," he muttered. "I'll stop him." He looked to them. "Now go!"

They looked to each other and back over to him.

"That's not going to happen," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"I'm with her," John told him. "I'm not leaving."

"Sherlock, see reason!" Hermione snapped, when it looked like he was going to try to out stubborn them. "There's no way you'd be able to get up there in time. There's only one thing to do." Reaching into the lining of her jacket, she pulled out a series of four medium sized tubes measuring approximately ten millimeters in diameter by a meter and a half long. As she was screwing them together, she asked, "Who's a fair hand with a blow gun here?"

"That would be me," Sherlock stated, taking it from her.

Handing him the dart, she told him, "Take care. I only have one more."

"What's in the dart?" John inquired, as he looked at the long thin metal dart with feathers at its base that she was handing off to Holmes.

"A knockout drug," she said, watching as Sherlock put it into the blow gun.

He nodded briskly, looking up to where Goodall was back at work trying as he might to start the generator once again. But this time he was just hitting buttons and switches at random.

"You're going to have to hold me out so I can get the shot," Sherlock told them.

Hermione got a rope tied around his waist. Between John and herself, they were able to get him out far enough to get the shot. Sherlock's feet were using the catwalk's arm rail to keep him steady, as John and Hermione were holding on to the rope for dear life. Slipping the dart into the thin copper piping, he lifted it to his lips and waited until he thought he had the shot.

He missed.

"Damn!" he hissed, going back to the catwalk and taking the last dart from her.

"It's about rhythm and timing," Hermione told him, as she was watching Goodall overhead. "He's going back and forth in two/two timing at forty beats per minute."

He looked up and found that she was correct. Nodding, he went back out once again. It was as he was getting ready once again that he heard Hermione.

She was beating out the timing of his swings with the heel of her boot on the boards of the catwalk. He listened to her rhythm of her beat and watched as he swung nearly in perfect cadence with what she was doing. Soon enough it was perfectly timed.

"Hold it…one more swing…on the counter-beat…aim for where he's going to be…Ready…Steady…_Fire!_"

He did and sure enough it hit the mark and within seconds, Kirk Goodall was hanging from his rigging, out cold.

They pulled Sherlock back to the catwalk. Holmes had no sooner untied himself from the rope then they were already making their way down to the ground. It was as they were getting to the ground that the Yard was arriving. Sherlock pointed up to where the man was dangling.

"And you're going to want to get the bomb squad here," he told Lestrade. "There's a bomb up there big enough to take out the ceiling."

The Chief Inspector just looked up there and muttered, "Fuck me."

"No thank you," Hermione said nonchalantly, as she was walking away. This had Sherlock and John snickering even as Greg was turning beet red.

When Sherlock caught up to Hermione, it was to find her leaning her head against her arm that was braced on the brick masonry of the building. She was taking deep, deep breaths, letting them out slowly. He went over and leaned against the building next to her.

Pulling away from the building, she looked over to him standing next to her. "Done?" she inquired.

"Yes," he murmured.

"Good." She looked over to John, who was joining them. "Ready for dinner, you two?"

"I'm famished," Sherlock said. "Can you make fish and chips?"

"No, that's what a fry shop is for," she told him. "And luckily enough, I know where the best one is in the area."

"I don't care for fry shops," Sherlock muttered.

"Birthday girl's choice. Buck up or pick a better restaurant."

"It's your birthday?" John asked her. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"It didn't seem as important as stopping the killer," she answered, looking over to Sherlock who nodded in agreement to this logic.

"Very well, we're having Italian. Coming, Watson?"

He nodded with a grin and they began searching for a taxi to take them to their dinner.

**TBC…**

**…**

**Another chapter has come and gone. And we only now have the epilogue to go—which, by the way, I shall be posting shortly. So run along and read it already! LOL! Thanks.**


	28. Epilogue

**Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.**

**Please read, sing a sea shanty as a round with your friends, laugh, have fun, and review.**

**…**

**Epilogue**

A week later, now well fed as well as rested, Sherlock was now bored once again. Which was more than likely the reason why he was going down to see Hermione at eight in the morning, an hour before her usual wake up time.

He got as far as the stairs when he heard it. She was on the phone, having an argument.

"No, he bloody well can't have his own way in this. And if he thought twice, he'd know it was too late anyway." She paused and let out an exasperated breath. "No!"

He walked into the flat and she nodded towards him in greeting, as she kept pacing while she listened to what the person on the other end of the line was saying.

"Well, you just have to get someone else to do it." She listened again. "It's too late for that as well! Dammit, Severus, you need to put your foot down with him. Get him to see reason." She listened again. "I don't care. Make him see it! Goodbye!" She punched the end on the touch screen, muttering, "What I wouldn't give to slam a receiver down right now." And then said in a lower voice, "Right down his bloody throat."

"You work for my brother?" he asked.

"Yes and no," she told him. "Not in the fashion you may think."

He thought that over. "Independent contractor?"

"Yes," she answered, turning to face him. "He wants to pull me out now. His reasons are his own and he's not one to tell someone he sees as lowly as myself his reasons why. Seeing as he only thinks of us all as goldfish, I'm lucky to have him tell me just as much as he does." Her amber eyes studied him for a time. "Do you hate me now?"

He thought that over. "Did you set out to be my friend as a ruse to get and keep close to me in order to do your work you had been assigned by my brother?"

"No," she murmured. "You would have seen through anything I would have done."

"Have you lied to me in the pursuit of doing this work for Mycroft?"

She shook her head no. "You've seen how well I do with lies." Moving closer to him, Hermione said to him, "You may not be aware of this, but I have it on very good authority that it is near on impossible to lie to you. And the only individual that's been able to get away with doing so was a psychopathic consulting criminal." Tilting her head in contemplation, she said, "I may be decent at times at a fib or two, but I'm not that good."

"You're not good at telling falsehoods in the least." This had her wincing.

Nodding she said, "Okay, you're correct. I'm horrid at it. I can't tell lies. It's just not in me to do it." She stopped right in front of him, saying, "I was going to pick up Diarmuid from Harry's place."

"Diarmuid?" he tested out the name. "What's it mean?"

"Without enemy," she murmured.

He nodded, saying, "I like it."

"A likeable name for a loveable dog," Hermione answered, but cleared her throat and asked, "You do realize that by not following your brother's instructions I will more than likely be fired?"

He nodded to this, saying, "I do." He studied her a moment. "Still interested in being a lowly paid intern?"

Before she knew it, she was beaming at him, saying, "That's one of the best offers I've had in a very long time."

"Great!" he said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them. "Because I think I just found a case that rates a seven!"

**The end**

**…**

**And there we are. We have come to the end of our story. My undying gratitude goes out to everyone who not only encouraged me to write this, but to the reviewers, the followers, and those who favorited as well. Thank you! Thank you! ****_Thank you!_**** This has been a wonderful journey and it wouldn't have been the same without you all here with me. And so until next time, my friends—****_adieu_****.**


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